By  Frances  Elliot 


Old  Court  Life  in  France 
Old  Court  Life  in  Spain 


+&AS 


«r  OLD  COURT 

LIFE 

IN  SPAIN 

BY 

Entrance  to  the  Mosque  ofciSJAlhambra. 

ILLUSTRATED 

VOLUME  I. 

G.  P 

NEW 

Zbc 

PUTNAM'S 

YORK  AND   LONDON 

fmicfcerbocfter  prea« 

«r  OLD  COURT 
LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


BY 


FRANCES  ELLIOT 

AUTHOR    OF    "OLD    COURT    LIFE    IN    FRANCE,"    ETC. 


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viv 


ILLUSTRATED 


VOLUME  I. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK  AND    LONDON 

Gbe  iftnfcfeerbocfcer  press 


MAY    iti   1935 


"Cbe  ftnicfeerbocfeer  ^ress,  "Hevc  H?orfe 


CD 

C 

O 


Go 

MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD 

TO    WHOSE    RESEARCHES 

t^_  I   AM    SO   MUCH    INDEBTED,   THIS    REVIVAL    OF 

CO 

OLD    SPANISH   TIMES 
CM 
r-{  IS   AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED 

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£66851 


PREFACE 


N  no  boastful  spirit  I  gratefully 
acknowledge  the  flattering  success 
of  Old  Court  Life  in  France,  written 
twenty  years  ago.  It  is  precisely 
owing  to  the  favour  with  which  the  public  in 
England,  America,  and  on  the  Continent  still 
honour  this  work  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  re- 
produce on  the  same  plan  some  pictures  of  early 
Spanish  history  comparatively  little  known  to  the 
general  public. 

Nothing  can  possibly  be  more  thrilling  and  more 
romantic. 

It  is  with  the  earlier  and  less  known  passages  of 
old  Court  life  I  have  dealt  down  to  the  reign  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabel,  from  which  period  the 
history  of  Spain  loses  its  peculiar  identity  and 
becomes  merged  into  that  of  Europe. 

If  I  have  loved  the  courtly  history  I  also  love  the 
country.  A  great  part  of  this  work  was  written 
in  Spain,  in  the  very  places  where  the  events 
occurred.  May  the  reader  share  the  same  en- 
thusiasm I  felt  in  describing  them ! 


AUTHORITIES 


Dozy — Histories. 

Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  in  Smith's  Dictionary  of  Christian  Bio- 
graphy on  Gothic  Ecclesiastical  History. 
Biographie  Universelle. 
Bradley — Story  of  the  Nations. 
Lane  Poole — The  Moors. 

Romanceros,  Ballads  of  the  Cid,  Ballads  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 
Lockhart — Spanish  Ballads. 
Cid  Campeador,  by  Prince  Odescalchi. 

Storia  de  Don  Pedro  Abogado  da  los  Tribunales  Nacionales. 
Chronicles  of  King  Alfonso  El  Sabio. 
Washington  Irving's  Works. 
Murray's  Guide  for  Spain. 
Diary  of  an  Idle  Woman  in  Spain. 
Prescott's  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabel. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — Introduction    .....         i 

II. — Don   Roderich. — Gathering  of  the 

Chiefs. — Trial  of  Witica   .  .       39 

III. — Don  Roderich's  Perfidy  .         .       58 

IV. — Don  Julian  Goes  over  to  the  Moors      76 

V. — Landing  of  the  Moors. — The  Eve  of 

Battle  .....       83 

VI. — Battle  of  Guadalete.— Overthrow 

of  Don  Roderich         ...       92 

VII. — Cordoba. — Pelistes. — Don  Julian. — 

Florinda      .....     100 

VIII. — Frandina  and  her  Son  Put  to  Death 

by  Alabor  .         .         .         .         .112 

IX. — The  Moors  at  Seville. — Mousa  and 

Abdul-asis  .....     124 

X. — Abdul-asis  and  Egilona  .         .         .135 

XI. — The  Moors  at  Cordoba  .         .         .     154 

XII. — Abdurraman,  Sultan  of  Cordoba    .     160 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII. — Onesinda  and  Kerim    .         .          .  168 

XIV. — Tragic  Death  of  Onesinda           .  176 

XV. — Pelayo  Proclaimed  King  by  the 

Goths           .....  182 

XVI. — Bernardo  del  Carpio  .  .         .190 

XVII. — King  Alonso         ....  202 

XVIII. — Bernardo  del  Carpio's  Vow         .  208 

XIX. — Bernardo  Leads  the  Goths  against 

Charlemagne  .  .  .214 

XX. — Death  of  Sir  Roland  the  Brave  221 

XXI. — Bernardo   Learns  the   Secret  of 

his  Birth. — Joins   the   Moors  226 

XXII. — El  Conde  de  Castila  .          .          .  237 

XXIII. — Dona  Ava 249 

XXIV. — Marriage  of  Dona  Ava  and  El 
Conde  de  Castila. — Treach- 
ery of  Dona  Teresa      .          .  257 

XXV. — Dona  Ava   Outwits   Don  Sancho 

and  Releases  her  Husband  .  265 

XXVI.— The  Cm— 1037       •         •  •         .276 

XXVII. — Don  Diego  Laynez  and  the  Conde 

de  Gormez      ....  280 


CONTENTS  xi 


XXVIII. — Don  Rodrigo  (the  Cid)  Kills  the 

CONDE   DE    GORMEZ   .  .  .       285 

XXIX. — Marriage  of  the  Cid  and  Dona 

Ximena   .....     292 

XXX. — Death  of  King  Fernando. — Dona 

Urraca  at  Zamora  .         .     299 

XXXI. — Don  Alfonso  Banishes   the  Cid    305 

XXXIL— The  Cid  Bids  Dona  Ximena  Fare- 
well      .         .         .         .         .311 

XXXIII. — Adventures  of  the  Cid. — Death 

and  Burial     ....     315 

XXXIV. — Fernando  el  Santo    .         .         .     326 

XXXV.— Don  Pedro  .         .         .         .340 


ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  PHOTOGRAVURE 

PAGE 

Entrance  to  the  Mosque  of  the  Alhambra 

Frontispiece 

The  Guadalquivir  and  Mosque,  Cordova  .       22 

The   Alhambra,   Granada,   and    the    Vega 

from  the  Generalife  ...       52 

Interior   of  the  Great   Mosque,  Cordova      82 

Torre  del  Mihrab  and  Granada        .         .110 

Moorish   Mills   in    the   Guadalquivir,  at 

Cordova         ......     142 

A  Proclamation  in  Granada,  by  Boabdil  .     166 

From   a   painting   by   Placido   Frances,  National 
Exhibition  of  Fine  Arts,  Madrid,  1884. 

The  Generalife,  Granada  ....     204 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OTHER  THAN  PHOTOGRAVURE 

A  View  in  Toledo 10 

In  the  Cathedral — Cordova   ...   34 

From  an  etching  by  Samuel  Colman. 

The  Cloisters,  Toledo       .  •  42 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The   Exterior  of   the   Great   Mosque  at 
Cordova        ..... 

The  Gate  of  the  Mosque  of  Cordova 

Mohammed  ...... 

A  View  of  Mecca  in  the  17TH  Century 

The  Golden  Tower,  Seville 


PAGE 
60 

74 

82 

96 

102 


Interior  of  San   Isidoro,   with    Tombs    of 

Kings 118 

Church  of  San  Isidoro  (Leon)    .  .         .     130 

Panteon   de   los   Reyes,  the  Burial  Place 

of  the  Ancient  Kings  of  Leon    .  154 

The  Charlemagne  of  Epic  .  .         .172 

From  the  painting  by  Albrecht  Durer. 

The  Roman  Bridge  at  Salamanca       .         .184 

The  Bridge,  Gateway,  and  Cathedral  of 

Burgos  ......     196 

The  Cathedral  of  Zamora,  Eleventh  Cen- 
tury     .......     210 

The  Walls  of  Zamora         ....     224 

A  Moorish  Gateway  (Burgos)    .         .         .     232 

The  Gateway   on  Site  of  Ancient   Puerta 

de  Serranos  (Valencia)         .         .         .     244 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xv 


PAGE 

The  Puerta  di  Santa  Maria,  Burgos  .     260 

The  Giralda,  Seville  ....     282 

The  Bridge  at  Saragossa  ....     304 
A  Drinking  Fountain  in  Seville        .         .316 

Photo  Levy  et  Fils. 

A  View  of  the  Interior  of  the  Cathedral 

at  Burgos     ......     330 

Photo  Levy  et  Fils. 

The  Burgos  Cathedral       ....     342 


Old  Court  Life  in  Spain 


CHAPTER  I 


Introduction 


OW  great  is  Spain!  How  mighty! 
From  the  rugged  mountains  of 
the  Asturias,  their  base  washed 
by  stormy  waves,  and  the  giddy 
heights  of  the  Pyrenean  precipices — an  eternal 
barrier  between  rival  peoples — to  the  balmy 
plains  of  the  South,  where  summer  ever  reigns! 
A  world  within  itself,  with  a  world's  variety! 
Quien  dice  Espana  dice  todo! 

And  its  history  is  as  varied  as  the  land.  First, 
according  to  the  legend,  Hercules  set  his  pillars, 
or  "keys" — the  ne  plus  ultra  of  land  and  sea — on 
the  rock  of  Calpe  (Gibraltar)  in  Europe,  and  on 
Abyla  (Ceuta)  in  Africa.  And,  that  no  one  should 
doubt  it,  he  placed  his  temple  on  the  water-logged 
flats,  half-sea,  half-land,  behind  Cadiz,  long 
remembered  by  the  Moors  as  the  "district  of 
Idols,"  near  the  city  of  Gades,  where  Geryon 
dwelt,  from  whom  Hercules  "lifted"  that  troop 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


of  fat  oxen  which  he  was  destined  so  long  to  drive 
wearily  about  the  earth.  In  memory  of  all  which 
Charles  the  Fifth,  the  great  Emperor,  carried 
Hercules'  pillars  on  his  shield,  with  the  proud 
motto,  Ne  plus  ultra,  and  the  city  of  Cadiz 
(Gades)  still  bears  them  as  its  arms. 

Then,  tradition  past,  came  invaders  from  the 
earliest  times,  Celts,  Phoenicians,  and  Greeks, 
driving  the  Iberians  from  their  rightful  lands. 
The  Carthaginians,  too,  crossed  from  Africa 
along  the  southern  coast,  and  settled  at  Carta- 
gena, which  still  bears  their  name. 

The  Romans  next  appeared,  victorious  under 
Pompey  and  Caesar,  spreading  over  Spain,  but 
especially  powerful  at  Seville,  Cordoba,  Toledo, 
Segovia,  and  Tarragona,  where  they  have  left  their 
mark  in  mighty  monuments. 

A  race  of  uncivilised  warriors  followed  from  the 
North,  so  powerful  that  two  Roman  emperors 
perished  in  battle  with  them.  Of  the  precise  seat 
of  the  Gothic  nation  it  is  hard  to  speak  with 
certainty.  It  is,  however,  known  that  they  came 
from  the  extreme  north,  spreading  to  the  borders 
of  the  Black  Sea,  into  Asia  Minor  in  the  east,  and 
to  the  south  of  Spain  in  the  west.  They  are 
mentioned  by  Pliny,  about  sixty  years  before 
Christ,  and  later  by  Tacitus,  who  twice  refers  to 
them  as  "  Gothones. "  There  were  so  many  tribes, 
Visigoths,  Astrogoths,  Gepidae,  and  even  Vandals, 
that  their  story  is  as  a  tangled  web,  mixed  with 
that  of  all  nations,  but  it  is  clear  that  those  who 


INTRODUCTION 


concern  our  present  purpose  came  down  into  Spain 
from  Narbonne  and  Toulouse. 

It  is  strange  how  soon  these  savage  northmen 
discarded  their  wooden  idols,  Woden,  Thor,  and 
Balder,  the  gods  of  thunder  and  of  the  sun — so 
that  when  Constantine  the  Great  christianised  the 
world,  the  Gothic  chief  Wulfila  was  ready  to  be- 
come a  convert.  Who  this  Wulfila  was,  and  how 
he  came  to  be  at  Constantinople,  is  not  clear.  As 
Bishop  of  the  Goths  he  returned  to  missionarise 
his  countrymen,  the  Dacian  tribes,  in  the  mighty 
plains  of  Philippopolis  (a.  d.  310-314),  and  made 
a  translation  of  the  Bible  into  Gothic.  Even  in 
our  own  day  something  of  this  precious  manu- 
script remains,  beautifully  written  in  letters  of 
gold  on  purple  vellum,  at  the  Swedish  University 
of  Upsala. 

From  the  earliest  times  the  Goths  had  a  rude 
alphabet  (Runes),  which  Wulfila  increased,  with 
letters  closely  resembling  English,  in  his  trans- 
lation of  the  Scriptures. 

Rude  indeed!  The  letters  were  formed  by 
staves  on  wooden  boards,  but  all  the  same  were 
destined  to  become  most  ornamental.  Gothic 
letters  are  still  in  use  for  decorative  purposes. 
Numerous  Gothic  manuscripts  exist,  written  in 
these  picturesque  characters,  and  the  inscription 
over  the  portal  of  Pedro  el  Cruel  at  the  Alcazar  at 
Seville  is  in  Gothic.  To  this  day,  too,  in  the 
Muzaraba  Chapel,  under  the  eastern  tower  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Toledo,  the  service  is  celebrated  ac- 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


cording  to  the  Christian  rite  from  Gothic  missals, 
dating   from    the    time    of    King   Recaredo. 

The  line  of  Gothic  rulers  in  Spain  lasted  for 
nearly  two  centuries  and  a  half.  No  less  than 
thirty  kings  succeeded  each  other  in  that  period, 
most  of  whom  died  either  by  violence  or  in  battle. 

Alaric,  "the  scourge  of  God,"  never  came  into 
Spain,  but  Eurico,  his  immediate  successor,  did. 
Eurico  was  the  greatest  warrior  of  his  time,  and  so 
versed  in  Christian  polemics  that  he  insisted  on  the 
entire  nation  becoming  Arians  like  himself.  No- 
thing but  the  close  contact  of  the  Goths  with  that 
hotbed  of  heresy,  Constantinople,  can  account  for 
a  semi-barbarian  indulging  in  a  choice  of  divers 
forms  of  doctrine,  nor  for  the  power  the  Gothic 
bishops  arrogated  to  themselves  after  the  pre- 
cedent of  the  Eastern  prelates  up  to  the  time  of 
Witica.  Like  the  Greek  patriarchs  they  were 
mixed  up  in  every  political  intrigue,  conspiracy, 
and  revolution;  made  and  unmade  kings  at  their 
pleasure,  and  greatly  influenced  the  ecclesiastical 
world  by  the  decrees  of  their  councils  at  Toledo. 
The  Goths  were,  indeed,  for  ages  a  priest-ridden 
nation,  and  the  names  of  their  great  archbishops 
have  come  down  to  us  as  landmarks  in  the  land. 

So  high  did  party  feeling  run  between  Arians 
and  Orthodox  that  Leovigildo  caused  his  only  son 
to  be  executed  because  he  had  called  an  Arian 
bishop  "a  servant  of  the  devil,"  and  refused  to 
"communicate"  with  him.     Yet  Leovigildo  was 


INTRODUCTION 


a  great  king  according  to  his  lights,  sat  on  a  raised 
throne  among  his  long-haired  chiefs,  and  had 
money  coined  in  his  name  bearing  an  effigy  of 
himself.  Even  now  a  dim  halo  of  the  pomp  of  the 
Basileus  seems  to  shine  around  him,  as  we  picture 
him  wearing  the  Gothic  crown,  clothed  in  an 
ermine  mantle,  with  the  purple  sandals  of  empire 
on  his  feet. 

How  early  is  the  religion  of  peace  turned  to 
strife !  We  are  in  the  sixth  century  among  a  new 
race,  and  already  the  flames  of  persecution  are 
blazing.  Two  parties  divide  the  kingdom,  "the 
bigots"  and  "the  Romanisers, "  degenerate  Goths, 
who  aspire  in  dress  and  manners  to  ape  the  culture 
of  Byzantium,  as  opposed  to  the  cloddish  habits 
of  the  "bigots, "  content  to  know  how  to  master  a 
horse,  draw  the  long  bow,  launch  the  javelin,  and 
follow  their  king  to  battle.  Whether  this  type  of 
original  Goth  would  have  brought  back  the  worship 
of  Thor  and  Woden  does  not  appear.  At  least 
under  these  idols  there  was  unity;  the  sacrifice 
of  human  victims  formed  a  convenient  method  of 
getting  rid  of  prisoners,  and  the  temporary  altars 
among  migratory  tribes,  served  by  male  and 
female  priests,  were  simple  and  convenient. 

But  Recaredo,  on  his  accession,  settled  the 
question  by  becoming  (like  the  mass  of  his  sub- 
jects) a  Catholic,  after  a  synod  of  sixty-seven 
bishops,  held  at  Toledo,  had  solemnly  decided  in 
favour  of  the  orthodoxy  of  that  Church.  Perhaps 
his  religious  divergences  might  not  have  been  so 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


unquestioningly  accepted,  had  he  not  defeated 
King  Gouteran  and  60,000  Franks.  A  Goth 
must  know  how  to  fight,  or  he  was  nothing;  and 
thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  theology  of  a  com- 
mander, brave  enough  to  hurl  destruction  on  his 
foes,  was  thankfully  accepted. 

Unlike  the  majority  of  his  predecessors,  Re- 
caredo  died  in  his  bed  (a.d.  601),  applauded  by  all 
men  for  his  wisdom  in  completing  the  union  of  the 
conquered  Iberians  with  the  Goths,  and  forming 
what  was  destined  to  become  the  future  kingdom 
of  Spain. 

Eleven  kings  pass,  and  now  (a.d.  680)  Reces- 
vinto,  whom  all  men  loved,  son  of  Chindavinto, 
lies  dead  upon  a  bed  of  state,  raised  on  a  dais, 
draped  with  purple  hangings ;  the  four  pillars  of  the 
canopy  are  plated  with  sheets  of  gold,  and  a  crown 
formed  by  strings  of  jewels,  depending  from  a 
circlet  set  with  uncut  stones,  hangs  over  his  head. 

So  bushy  and  matted  is  his  hair — worn  in  the 
fashion  of  the  Goths,  in  long  loose  curls — and  so 
thick  his  beard,  that  the  sunken  features  of  the 
good  old  King  are  almost  hidden.  For  twenty- 
three  years  Recesvinto  has  reigned  in  peace,  and 
now  he  lies  in  honoured  death,  while  gathered 
around  him  is  such  pomp  as  the  nation  possesses 
of  golden  crome  and  kingly  insignia;  ermine-lined 
robe,  and  silken  vest,  sandals  and  buskins  laced 
with  gold,  the  baton  of  command  and  the  Gothic 
sceptre  long  borne  in  battle  by  their  kings. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  vaulted  chamber  in  which  he  lies  in  the 
castle  of  Gerticos  is  lined  with  planks  of  shining 
pine,  on  which  some  rude  embroidery  is  stretched. 
The  hallowed  roof  is  formed  of  thick  beams  and 
rafters,  and  huge  fireplaces  flank  either  end,  filled 
now  with  strong-smelling  herbs,  rosemary  and 
wild  myrtle,  lavender  and  thyme,  loose  sprigs  of 
which,  with  yew  and  cypress,  are  strewn  on  the 
rudely  worked  counterpane  which  covers  the 
corpse.  Broadswords  with  huge  hilts  are  crossed 
upon  the  walls,  along  with  solidly  embossed  shields 
and  heavily  topped  lances,  the  implements  of  the 
chase,  and  skins  of  wolves  and  deer,  which  have 
fallen  by  the  prowess  of  those  royal  hands,  now 
lying  white  and  cold  in  death,  crossed  on  his 
breast,  clasping  a  crucifix!  Saddles,  too,  and  the 
silver  trappings  of  his  war-horse,  are  there,  and 
Runic  bracelets,  collars,  and  buckles;  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  a  Gothic  chief,  come  down  from 
Dacian  ancestors,  ranged  on  tables  full  in  the 
crimson  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through 
the  small  bars  of  the  uncurtained  casements,  and 
illuminating  each  detail  in  flickering  patches  as  of 
flame. 

On  an  oaken  bench  an  altar  has  been  raised  to 
receive  his  last  confession,  devoutly  made,  as  he 
felt  death  approaching.  The  Eucharist  is  still 
present  in  a  jewelled  box,  the  cup,  platter,  and 
crucifix,  while  priests  and  acolytes,  in  stoles  and 
copes,  offer  up  silent  prayers  for  his  departed  soul. 
Clouds  of  incense  darken  the  room  and  mount  into 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


the  lofty  vaulting  of  the  roof  in  huge  shadowy 
masses,  which  to  the  superstitious  mind  might 
shape  into  the  outlines  of  dead  Gothic  kings, 
hovering  over  the  form  of  the  royal  brother  who 
has  joined  them  in  the  world  beyond. 

Around  the  chamber  are  gathered  the  warriors 
and  chiefs  who  have  followed  him  in  battle, 
habited  in  the  full  loose  garments  of  peace,  bound 
in  with  girdles  and  waistbands.  Tall,  strong  men, 
with  blue  eyes  and  fair  skins,  who,  by  their  dress, 
might  be  mistaken  for  Roman  senators,  save  for 
the  pervading  colour  of  their  abundant  hair,  pass- 
ing from  every  tint  of  pale  straw  colour  to  a  dull 
red,  their  bare  arms  circled  with  bracelets  and 
amulets,  on  which,  spite  of  Christian  doctrine, 
charms  and  cabalistic  signs  are  engraved. 

Chief  among  them  stands  Hilderic,  Governor 
of  Nimes  (for  the  south  of  France  up  to  the  centre 
is  Gothic),  a  massive,  large-limbed  man  of  brutal 
courage,  whose  life  has  passed  in  feuds  and  battles 
with  Franks  and  Basques,  never  hesitating  at  any 
act  of  cruelty  that  would  extend  his  power.  A 
fierce  crimson  hue  is  on  his  broad  face  from  con- 
stant exposure,  and  there  are  scars  on  neck  and 
cheek,  calculated  to  inspire  sympathy  with  his 
courage,  if  his  ferocious  expression  did  not  turn 
them  rather  into  a  cause  of  dread.  Beside  him 
stands  Gunhild  of  Maguelone,  a  turbulent  soldier 
of  inferior  position,  wanting  in  the  authority 
assumed  by  Hilderic. 

Both  these  ambitious  chiefs  have  been  intriguing 


INTRODUCTION 


for  the  crown,  as  Recesvinto  grew  old,  hating  each 
other  bitterly  while  he  lived,  and  now  that  he  is 
dead,  bearing  themselves  with  an  irreverent  in- 
difference painful  to  behold,  talking  in  loud  whis- 
pers to  those  about,  and  laughing  at  rude  jokes, 
especially  Hilderic,  who  stands  apart  stroking  the 
head  of  a  favourite  wolf-dog  of  gigantic  size. 

Beside  them  is  a  Greek,  Paul  by  name,  who  has 
made  his  way  into  favour  by  extraordinary  val- 
our. Of  his  origin  no  one  is  certain;  of  polished 
exterior,  his  superior  civilisation  is  apparent  in 
manners  and  in  dress,  much  more  gaudy  and 
ornate  than  that  of  the  rest.  A  mantle  of  fine 
blue  cloth  falls  in  ample  folds  about  his  graceful 
form,  with  a  certain  Oriental  amplitude  easy  to 
distinguish,  and  in  his  hand  he  carries  a  scarlet  cap. 

Paul  is  to  head  a  revolution  by-and-by,  under 
Hilderic;  then,  unsuccessful,  to  be  dragged  by  the 
hair  of  his  head  (more  Gotico) ,  between  two  horses 
— friends  and  allies  to-day,  mortal  enemies  to- 
morrow— such  is  the  custom  of  these  chiefs,  often 
incited  by  the  rancour  of  the  women,  who  appear 
in  history  as  more  bloodthirsty,  if  possible,  than 
the  men. 

Aetius  is  there  also,  and  Turismundo  and  Sisen- 
anth,  all  mighty  nobles,  and  placed  modestly  be- 
hind a  noble  Goth,  verging  into  years,  noticeable 
for  the  merciful  disposition  expressed  in  his 
wrinkled  face ;  Wamba  is  his  name,  the  friend  of  the 
oppressed  and  of  the  tillers  of  the  soil,  poor  slaves 
whom  no  man  heeds — even  of  the  Jews,  whom  he 


io  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


insists  upon  treating  as  members  of  the  great 
human  family ;  a  brave,  determined  man  of  the  old 
Dacian  type,  notable  among  the  fiery  spirits 
around.  As  he  has  great  possessions,  to  which  he 
attends  himself,  he  is  known  as  "the  farmer,"  in 
derision  of  his  simple  tastes.  Wamba  is  no  kins- 
man to  Recesvinto,  but  a  whisper  has  gone  forth 
that  he  is  destined  to  succeed  him.  The  Church, 
at  this  time  most  powerful,  favours  him,  and  he  is 
the  only  chief  present  whose  record  is  free  from 
crime.  Many  and  many  a  time  he  has  fought 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  king  who  now  lies 
dead.  To  him  the  funeral  chamber  brings  a 
genuine  sorrow — not  even  pretended  by  the  rest — 
and  as  he  gazes  on  the  features  of  his  friend,  tears 
rise  and  moisten  his  eyes. 

Behind  Wamba  stands  his  beloved  follower, 
Ervig,  a  youth  whose  olive-complexioned  face 
and  clear  brown  eyes  show  alien  blood.  His 
mother,  a  Gothic  princess,  was  kinswoman  to 
King  Chindavinto,  but  his  father  was  a  Greek. 
As  yet  no  one  reads  the  unscrupulous  ambition  of 
his  soul.  Indeed,  he  hardly  realises  it  himself. 
Crime  often  lies  dormant  in  seemingly  innocent 
natures,  until  occasion  discovers  it.  The  evil 
spirit  within  him  is  to  be  developed  by  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  patron  Wamba,  who,  unknowingly, 
is  warming  a  serpent  in  his  breast. 

All  present  fall  back  as  Julianus,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  enters.  He  has  hurried  from 
Toledo  to  be  present  ere  the  old  king  breathes  his 


J\ 


INTRODUCTION  n 

last.  But  death  waits  for  no  man.  As  he  enters 
the  homely  chamber  of  death  with  an  overwhelm- 
ing majesty  of  look  and  manner,  his  cold,  impas- 
sive glance  dominates  them  all.  Nor  is  the  dignity 
of  costume  wanting.  His  monastic  mantle  is 
secured  at  the  neck  by  a  golden  clasp,  and  drapes 
heavily  about  him;  the  sleeves  of  his  tunic  are 
lined  with  precious  fur;  on  his  finger  is  the 
pastoral  ring,  and  from  his  neck  is  suspended  a 
jewelled  cross;  a  dress  at  once  simple  and 
costly,  answering  to  the  imperious  expression  of 
his  face,  looking  out  from  the  folds  of  a  dark 
silken  cowl,  which  falls  back  from  his  head,  his 
deeply-sunk  eyes  taking  in  at  a  glance  all  the 
details  around  him. 

Julianus  is  the  foremost  prelate  in  learning  and 
power  the  Goths  ever  had.  Next,  indeed,  in 
historical  importance  to  Isidor  of  Seville,  though 
much  earlier  in  point  of  date;  his  influence  and 
preponderance  are  at  this  time  supreme.  Possibly 
he  was  by  birth  a  Jew,  though  early  attached  to  the 
Chapter  of  Toledo.  A  churchman  of  great  literary 
gifts,  restless,  unscrupulous,  ambitious;  the  very 
Hildebrand  of  those  early  times,  who  raised 
the  see  of  Toledo  to  a  position  of  unparallelled 
supremacy,  presiding  during  his  life  at  various 
councils  most  important  in  the  history  of  the 
mediaeval  church. 

The  archbishop  is  attended  by  his  secretary,  a 
lay  brother,  habited  in  black,  carrying  papers,  who 
(as  reflecting  the  tyranny  of  his  master)  stands, 


12  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

without  daring  to  raise  his  eyes,  more  like  an 
automaton  than  a  living  man. 

The  only  one  whom  the  archbishop  condescends 
to  notice  among  the  assembly  is  Wamba,  who  holds 
himself  somewhat  apart  from  the  rest.  He  at 
once  singles  him  out  and  salutes  him  with  a  pro- 
found obeisance  which  Wamba,  without  evincing 
any  surprise,  returns  in  silence. 

To  look  on  the  face  of  the  dead  is  a  duty  among 
these  savage  races,  who  believe  that  the  soul  of 
the  departed  lingers  for  awhile  about  its  tene- 
ment of  clay.  But  there  is  another  and  more 
powerful  incentive  which  has  assembled  these 
chiefs  from  the  far-off  provinces  of  the  kingdom. 

Round  the  bed  of  the  dead  king  they  stand  to 
choose  his  successor.  Absolute  silence  reigns. 
Each  man  is  jealous  of  his  neighbour,  and  con- 
vinced that  his  own  claims  will  prevail.  Espe- 
cially is  this  the  case  with  Hilderic,  who  has  a  secret 
compact  with  the  Jews  who  fled  from  oppression  in 
the  south  of  Spain  to  his  government  of  Nar- 
bonne,  and  he  knows  that  they  will  gladly  furnish 
him  with  funds  to  harass  the  Christian  nobles. 

At  last  the  voice  of  the  archbishop  is  raised  to 
break  the  strange  hush  around. 

"Chiefs  and  nobles  of  the  Gothic  nation,"  he 
says,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  while  all  eyes  are  fixed 
on  him,  "the  king  who  lies  here  reigned  in  peace 
according  to  the  Gospel.  I  am  not  come  to  make 
his  funeral  oration.  All  present  know  his  good 
deeds  and  the  moderation  of  his  rule.     For  twenty- 


INTRODUCTION  13 

three  years  the  sword  of  the  Goth  has  rested  in  the 
scabbard.  But  this  calm  cannot  continue.  An 
able  man  must  succeed  him.  One" — and  as  he 
spoke  the  silken  cowl  fell  altogether  back,  dis- 
playing the  powerful  lines  of  his  tonsured  head, 
the  broad  intellectual  brow,  and  the  erectness  of 
command — "one,  I  say,  alone  is  worthy,  and  that 
isWamba.     He  has  no  enemies. " 

As  a  long-drawn  breath  of  eager  expectation 
looses  itself  with  a  distinct  note  of  relief,  so  did 
a  low  sound  pass  through  the  dead  chamber  as 
Julianus  spoke.  On  every  countenance  came  an 
expression  of  astonishment,  but  it  was  astonish- 
ment unmixed  with  opposition  or  anger.  A  relief 
indeed  to  pent-up  feelings,  which  finally  found 
vent  in  a  burst  of  loud  applause,  each  man  falling 
back  instinctively  to  where  Wamba  had  placed 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then,  as  with  one 
voice,  came  the  response : 

' '  Yes,  Wamba !     He  shall  be  our  king ! ' ' 

"  But, "  cried  Wamba,  his  wrinkled  face  working 
with  emotion,  as  he  advanced  quickly  to  where 
Julianus  stood,  "my  consent  is  needful  to  this 
proposal.  Now  I  refuse  it.  I  am  not  of  an  age 
to  rule  over  my  valorous  countrymen.  I  am 
old,  I  am  unworthy.  The  strength  of  my  arm 
is  gone.  I  am  unfit  to  lead  the  dauntless  Goths 
to  battle." 

"Then  rule  over  them  at  home,"  is  the  short 
rejoinder  of  the  archbishop.  "In  a  nation  of 
soldiers  a  peaceful  sovereign  is  best.      You  are 


14  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

great  in  wisdom,  O  Wamba!  Recesvinto  was  no 
warrior,  and  we  are  here  to  mourn  his  loss. " 

"Yes,"  replies  Hilderic,  secretly  rejoiced  at  the 
choice  of  Julianus,  as  from  the  age  of  Wamba  he 
will  have  time  and  occasion  to  complete  his 
treacherous  plans  before  the  new  king's  probable 
death,  for  to  Hilderic  Wamba  appears  an  aged 
visionary,  easy  to  be  put  aside  when  opportunity 
is  ripe,  a  convenient  stop-gap  for  a  time — "yes, 
Wamba,  you  are  the  only  man  we  will  accept 
without  bloodshed." 

"Impossible!"  cries  Wamba,  his  cheeks  redden- 
ing with  anger.  "I  will  accept  nothing  which  I 
cannot  righteously  fulfil.     I  am  unfit  to  reign." 

"No,  no!"  exclaims  Ervig,  casting  his  arms 
about  his  patron's  neck  and  affectionately  salut- 
ing him.  "Goodness  and  wisdom  are  the  best, 
and  those  are  yours,  dear  master." 

"We  will  have  you!  Speak!  Consent!"  come 
as  one  word  from  the  circle  of  nobles.  "You  dare 
not  refuse  the  will  of  the  chiefs, "  cry  all,  gathering 
round  him,  each  more  or  less  approving  the  choice 
on  the  same  grounds  as  did  Hilderic,  or  as  con- 
sidering Wamba  an  easy  ruler,  under  whom  every 
man  would  be  his  own  master.  Already  the 
brows  of  some  begin  to  darken  at  his  continued 
refusal. 

"Choose  some  younger  man,"  he  persists, 
struggling  from  the  hands  which  are  now  laid  on 
him;  "one  better  fitted  for  the  arduous  duties  of 
your  king.     Look  at  me,"  and  he  raises  his  grey 


INTRODUCTION  15 

locks  and  bares  his  furrowed  forehead,  "I  am 
long  past  my  prime. "  As  he  speaks  he  is  retreat- 
ing as  best  he  can  towards  the  door,  when  the  fiery 
Hilderic,  seizing  him  with  one  hand,  with  the  other 
brandishes  a  naked  spear. 

"Look  you,  Wamba, "  says  he,  a  dangerous  fire 
kindling  his  eye,  "you  shall  never  leave  this 
chamber,  save  as  a  dead  man,  or  as  our  king. " 

"  Dead,  or  as  our  king, "  came  as  a  war-cry  from 
all  the  fierce  Goths,  closing  round  him  with 
such  unseeming  shouts  and  din,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  their  rude  clamour  must  disturb  the  last  sleep 
of  the  dead  whose  presence  all  had  forgotten. 

"You  accept  the  crown  in  the  sight  of  God?" 
demands  the  archbishop  in  a  solemn  voice,  stretch- 
ing forth  his  hands  towards  Wamba,  who,  per- 
ceiving that  further  opposition  is  useless,  bows 
his  head.  "Then  at  this  altar  let  us  offer  up  our 
thanksgivings.  The  Church  is  with  you,  Wam- 
ba. "  And  Julianus  turns  to  the  oaken  table  on 
which  stands  the  Host,  and  falls  upon  his  knees, 
with  the  priests  and  acolytes  around,  followed  by 
all  those  fierce  spirits  quelled  for  an  instant  by  the 
might  of  his  power. 

"And, "  says  Wamba,  as  last  of  all  that  assembly 
he  slowly  bends  his  knee  in  the  place  of  honour  re- 
served for  him  next  to  the  archbishop,  "country- 
men! let  your  prayers  be  for  me  also,  that  I  may 
not  be  deemed  unworthy!" 

Again  the  incense  rises  in  shadowy  clouds,  filling 
the  chamber  with  strange  outlines.     Again  the 


1 6  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

voices  of  the  priests  rise  and  fall,  and  human  in- 
terests are  lulled  for  awhile  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead  king.  Again  the  chiefs  remember  for  a  brief 
moment  his  just  and  tranquil  reign,  and  many- 
prayers  are  recited  with  apparent  fervour  for  the 
repose  of  his  soul. 

Within  nineteen  days  after  the  election  of  his 
successor,  Recesvinto  was  buried  and  Wamba 
crowned  by  Julianus  in  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo. 
All  Spain  was  jubilant,  for  he  was  a  blameless  man ; 
indeed,  a  fond  remembrance  yet  clings  to  his  name 
at  Toledo.  The  words  Tiempo  del  Rey  Wamba 
still  point  to  some  lingering  impression  of  national 
prosperity  and  of  a  time  of  plenty,  answering  to 
the  days  of  the  "Saxon  kings"  in  England.  And 
Wamba  was  indeed  no  imbecile,  or  weak-handed 
in  war,  as  Hilderic  and  his  friend  the  Greek  Paul 
pretended,  when,  helped  by  the  Jews,  they  broke 
into  rebellion.  He  was  a  warrior  indeed,  who, 
though  old,  could  lead  the  Goths  to  victory  and 
punish  his  enemies  by  slaughter  and  torture  as 
was  the  habit  of  his  nation.  After  which  the 
"Farmer  King,"  as  he  was  affectionately  called, 
to  indicate  his  simple  tastes  and  care  for  the  neg- 
lected serfs,  returned  to  Toledo  to  enjoy  his  tri- 
umph, descending  the  hill  to  the  cathedral,  through 
the  narrow  streets,  much  as  we  see  them  now, 
followed  by  a  long  procession  of  captive  Basques 
with  shaven  heads,  a  signal  mark  of  humiliation  to 
the  abundant-haired  Goths  (the  rebel  Paul,  in  im- 


INTRODUCTION  17 

pious  mockery,  decorated  with  a  leather  crown, 
stuck  on  his  head  with  melted  pitch,  and  a  sceptre 
of  reeds  in  his  hand),  to  be  received  by  the  Arch- 
bishop Julianus  under  the  sculptures  of  the  Gate, 
at  the  head  of  his  clergy. 

But  the  decline  of  native  valour  had  gone  too  far 
for  any  single  man  to  stem  the  downward  tide. 
The  free  constitution  of  the  Nomad  tribes  had 
given  place  to  a  military  despotism,  alternating 
with,  and  controlled  by,  a  bigoted  priesthood. 
The  tremendous  superiority  of  Julianus  delayed 
for  a  time  this  downward  course,  but  could  not 
arrest  it.  Even  his  iron  will  could  not  stop  the 
decadence  of  a  nation.  Each  chief — or  duke  (dux) 
— was  king  in  his  own  district,  and  free  to  lead  a 
life  of  idleness  and  crime.  If  the  Goths  still  fought 
well,  it  was  only  against  each  other,  or  when 
pressed  by  necessity  to  arrest  the  inroads  of  the 
Franks,  a  much  more  masculine  nation  than 
themselves. 

In  the  south,  the  Moors  were  eagerly  watching 
for  some  chance  of  crushing  out  the  Northmen. 
At  home,  the  Jews,  persecuted,  ill-treated,  and 
numerous,  were  ready  to  join  with  every  rebel,  and 
to  welcome  any  invader,  while,  in  spite  of  the 
efforts  of  the  king,  the  freedmen,  sunk  in  hopeless 
slavery,  tilled  the  land  for  their  masters  and  lived 
like  the  beasts  of  the  field.  All  who  possessed 
more  than  themselves  or  who  amassed  riches  were 
exposed  to  the  envious  rapacity  of  the  nobles. 

Thus  the  nation  was  threatened  with  destruction 

VOL.    I — 2 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


on  all  sides,  yet  so  short-sighted  and  effete  had 
the  Goths  become,  that,  deluded  with  the  sem- 
blance of  a  false  peace,  they  lived  as  they  listed, 
unconscious  of  the  ruin  gathering  around. 

For  a  time  all  went  well  with  Wamba.  The 
vigour  of  his  government  had  been  a  surprise  to 
those  who  had  elected  him,  to  none  more  than  the 
archbishop  himself,  who  little  expected  to  find  a 
ruler  of  such  determination  in  the  modest-minded 
chief.  No  woman  swayed  his  councils,  neither 
wife,  daughter,  nor  leman.  All  his  love  was  centred 
in  Ervig,  whom  he  constantly  advanced  step  by 
step  to  fresh  honours  and  commands.  So  much 
was  Wamba  beloved  by  the  people  and  nation, 
that  the  erudite  but  ambitious  Julianus,  still 
hoping  to  govern  him  with  courtly  flattery,  wrote 
his  panegyric  in  the  Storia  Wamba,  extolling 
him  as  the  pattern  of  a  Christian  hero;  and  Ervig, 
who  had  developed  into  a  subtle  statesman, 
greatly  favoured  by  the  archbishop,  helped  him  to 
turn  the  elegant  sentences. 

When  Julianus  had  declared  on  Wamba's 
election  that  "the  Church  was  with  him, "  it  was  in 
the  belief  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  weak  old  man 
whom  he  could  blindly  lead.  He  never  dreamed 
that  he  would  dare  to  touch  the  privileges  of  his 
order.  Perhaps  Wamba  thought  so  himself  be- 
fore power  imposed  duties  on  his  conscience.  But 
when  he  insisted  on  keeping  the  clergy  in  check, 
and  exercised  his  prerogative  in  enacting  new  laws 
of   reform,  Julianus  secretly  resolved  on  his   de- 


INTRODUCTION  19 

struction.  Imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  Roman 
pontiffs  he  would  permit  no  meddling  of  the  secu- 
lar arm  with  his  authority.  Even  the  king,  accord- 
ing to  Julianus,  must  submit  to  the  decrees  of  the 
great  councils  which  he,  as  archbishop,  was  so  fond 
of  calling  together,  and  which  were  destined  to 
make  his  name  famous  throughout  the  world. 

To  effect  the  downfall  of  Wamba  a  tool  was 
needed,  and  that  tool  was  Ervig.  Striking  with  a 
master  hand  on  the  baser  chords  of  his  nature, 
vanity  and  ambition,  the  relentless  archbishop 
crushed  out  of  him  every  spark  of  gratitude  and 
love  and  moulded  him  to  his  hand  as  the  potter 
moulds  the  clay. 

"It  is  for  the  salvation  of  the  Church  of  God, " 
whispered  Julianus,  "a  holy  deed.  It  is  Wamba 
who  is  the  Judas,  not  you,  my  son, "  in  answer  to 
Ervig's  feeble  arguments.  "Wamba  has  basely 
betrayed  his  master,  and  must  be  cast  out  as  a 
brand  to  the  burning!  You  are  of  royal  blood, 
Wamba  is  but  a  hireling.  Instead  of  standing  as 
second  to  the  throne,  it  is  your  right  to  mount  it, 
and  prove  to  this  backslider  that  the  same  hand 
which  crowned  him  can  cast  him  down. " 

"But  you  will  spare  his  life,"  pleaded  Ervig, 
pricked  sorely  in  his  conscience  in  spite  of  the 
casuistry  of  the  archbishop. 

"That  will  be  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord," 
answered  the  arrogant  priest.  "I  am  but  the 
instrument  of  the  Most  High." 


20  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Wamba  did  not  live  in  the  fortress  over  the  city 
of  Toledo,  the  present  Alcazar,  but  in  a  palace 
near  the  church  now  called  Juan  de  los  Reyes, 
situated  on  a  plateau  overlooking  the  Tagus,  and 
lower  down  in  the  town  among  the  citizens.  In- 
stinctively he  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  Ervig. 
He  shunned  him,  he  was  short  and  reticent  in  his 
replies,  assumed  a  haughty  indifference  to  his 
commands,  and  so  openly  opposed  the  new  clerical 
laws  that  Wamba  severely  reproved  him.  After 
which  a  strange  thing  happened.  Wamba  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep,  sitting  in  the  hall  of  his  palace, 
lulled  by  the  ripple  of  the  river  far  below ;  a  stupor, 
rather  than  a  sleep,  for  he  could  not  be  aroused. 

"The  hand  of  God  is  upon  him, "  cried  the  false 
Ervig,  whom  the  attendants  had  summoned.  "  Call 
the  archbishop.     He  must  not  die  unshriven. " 

When  consciousness  returned,  Wamba  found 
himself  habited  as  a  monk,  with  a  dark  cowl  over 
his  eyes,  lying  on  a  wooden  trestle,  more  like  a 
bier  than  a  resting-place  for  a  living  man.  The 
walls  around  were  bare  and  discoloured  with 
mildew,  a  dim  uncertain  light  fell  on  his  face  from 
a  narrow  window  too  high  in  the  wall  to  reveal 
anything  without.  A  terrible  oppression  over- 
whelmed him;  he  could  scarcely  open  his  eyes, 
and  every  limb  seemed  paralysed. 

Whether  the  sleeping  potion  administered  by 
Ervig  had  not  been  potent  enough  to  end  life, 
or  whether  the  strength  of  his  constitution  had 
resisted  its  full  action,  no  man  will  ever  know. 


INTRODUCTION  21 

Gradually,  as  his  senses  returned,  he  understood 
the  treason  of  which  he  was  the  victim.  He  was  in 
a  monk's  dress,  and,  according  to  the  Gothic  law, 
whoever  once  assumes  the  ecclesiastical  habit  is 
dead  to  actual  life.  As  far  as  his  kingly  office  was 
concerned  they  might  as  well  have  sealed  him  in 
a  tomb,  and  read  the  prayers  for  the  dead  over 
him! 

"And  Ervig  had  done  this!  Ervig!"  For  he 
dimly  remembered  a  drink  which  Ervig  had  at  his 
request  offered  him  before  he  fell  asleep.  In  that 
moment  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death  passed 
over  him.  Death  brings  forgetfulness.  Wamba's 
returning  senses  came  with  an  agonised  recalling 
of  all  his  former  life,  out  of  which  rose  the  image  of 
that  one  false  friend  whom  he  had  so  loved  and 
trusted.  Moment  by  moment  all  became  clear; 
Ervig  had,  during  his  swoon,  clothed  him  as  a 
monk.     He  was  dethroned ! 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  cell  opens,  and  the 
stately  figure  of  the  archbishop  appears.  With 
straight  swift  strides  he  advances  to  where  Wam- 
ba  lies ;  his  priestly  robe  drooping  around  him  with 
a  heavy  patrician  grace,  his  ebon  hair  falling  over 
his  ample  brow,  a  veil  to  the  glittering  eyes  be- 
neath, which  burn  with  an  evil  fire.  Like  a 
phantom  he  stands  over  the  prostrate  king — his 
form  in  shadow,  sombrely  defined  against  the 
window,  and  in  an  instant  all  the  cell  seems  to 
palpitate  with  life;  the  walls  animate  with  the  ex- 
pectant eyes  of  monks  placed  there  to  watch  the 


22  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

swoon  of  the  king — a  dark  and  sinister  background 
revealed  by  the  scanty  light,  in  which  Julianus 
dominates  like  some  wicked  giant  about  to  pounce 
upon  his  prey. 

Ervig  was  beside  him,  standing  with  averted 
looks  that  he  might  not  meet  the  gaze  of  Wamba, 
who  still  lay  with  half  closed  eyes,  passively  watch- 
ing the  movements  of  his  enemies. 

Was  it  to  be  life  or  death?  He  cared  not!  A 
chill  as  of  death  curdled  his  blood.  The  cell 
whirled  and  a  mighty  darkness  reeled  down  upon 
him.  Wounded  to  the  quick,  he  would  not  even 
condescend  to  expostulate.  Before  such  base 
treachery  his  righteous  soul  revolted.  They  had 
him  in  their  power,  let  them  wreak  their  will.  His 
life  was  done,  his  reign  ended.  Against  the  law 
under  which  he  lay  there  was  no  appeal.  Shut 
up  in  a  subterranean  prison  how  could  he  com- 
municate with  any  who  might  dare  to  restore  him 
to  his  throne?  It  was  subtly  planned,  and  by  a 
master  mind! 

Wamba  is,  however,  the  first  to  break  silence. 
He  heaves  a  deep  sigh  and  opens  his  eyes,  passing 
his  hands  slowly  over  his  face,  ghastly  under  the 
effects  of  the  poison.  "You  have  been  a  false 
friend  to  me,"  he  says,  addressing  himself,  not  to 
the  archbishop,  but  to  the  muffled  figure  which 
stands  behind  him.  "You  have  returned  evil  for 
good.  In  what  have  I  injured  you?"  His  voice 
is  low,  but  he  speaks  with  the  calmness  of  one 
who  has  already  passed  the  gates  of  death. 


.jsvofcno!yr 


upIfibfiuO  srlT 


' 


The  Guadalquivir  and  Mosque,  Cordova. 

'   the  law 
hut 


led  figur< 
iim. 

i 


INTRODUCTION  23 

"Accuse  not  Ervig, "  answers  the  archbishop,  in 
a  tone  of  lofty  command,  placing  himself  before 
Wamba,  so  as  to  fill  with  his  ample  draperies  the 
narrow  space  of  light.  "It  is  the  Holy  Church 
in  my  person  you  have  offended.  As  an  un- 
faithful son  you  are  cast  out.  Ervig  has  but 
done  his  duty,  for  you,  Wamba,  are  a  recreant 
unfit  to  reign." 

"And  does  the  duty  of  Ervig  lead  him  to  succeed 
me?"  asks  Wamba,  raising  himself  painfully  from 
the  pallet  and  leaning  forward,  so  that  the  out- 
lines of  his  sunken  features  appear  under  the  cowl. 

"It  does,"  answers  Julianus,  still  shielding 
Ervig  from  the  glance  of  contempt  which  shoots 
from  the  eyes  of  Wamba. 

"It  is  well,"  is  the  answer.  "You  made  me 
king,  Julianus,  against  my  will.  Now,  against  my 
will,  you  unmake  me.  Poor  and  wretched  in- 
strument, "  he  adds,  raising  his  hand  towards 
Ervig,  who  was  crouching  in  the  shadow  near 
the  wall,  "beware  how  you  cross  Julianus.  Take 
example  by  me,  and  let  no  love  for  the  Gothic 
tempt  you  to  do  justice  to  the  people. " 

"Dare  not  to  question  the  judgment  of  God," 
exclaims  the  archbishop,  an  expression  of  lofty 
scorn  lighting  up  the  evil  brilliancy  of  his  deeply 
sunken  eyes.  "To  Ervig  you  owe  your  life.  I 
would  have  flung  you  into  the  fires  of  purgatory 
to  purify  your  sinful  soul,  but  his  counsels  were 
of  mercy." 

"  I  thank  him  not, "  replies  Wamba.     "  I  am  old, 


24  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

and  my  time  in  this  world  is  short.  I  would  far 
rather  have  sunk  into  eternal  sleep,  than  lead  the 
life  to  which  you  have  condemned  me. " 

So  deeply  moved  was  Ervig,  despite  the  dignity 
which  awaited  him,  that  he  did  not  reply.  He 
was  a  weak,  unworthy  nature,  bad,  but  not  wholly 
depraved.  He  had  been  worked  upon  and  warped 
by  the  sophistries  of  the  unscrupulous  arch- 
bishop, which  now,  in  the  presence  of  his  bene- 
factor, seemed  to  lose  all  their  weight.  Even  his 
ambition  to  reign  wavered  for  the  moment  before 
his  remorse,  as  one  who  having  braced  himself  to 
commit  a  crime,  yet  lacks  the  courage  to  carry 
out  the  measure  of  his  iniquity. 

So  evident  was  this,  that,  full  of  the  fear  of 
what  his  affection  for  Wamba  might  prompt  him 
to  do,  Julianus  brought  the  interview  to  an  abrupt 
end.  Without  another  word  he  passed  out  of  the 
cell  followed  by  Ervig,  and  the  army  of  tonsured 
monks,  who  had  borne  Wamba  in,  now  returned 
to  watch  his  gradual  return  to  active  life. 

The  "Farmer  King"  had,  however,  many 
friends.  The  Goths  loved  him,  and  the  Jews  (a 
powerful  contingent,  richer  than  all  the  rest)  re- 
spected him.  So  humble  was  he  in  peace,  so 
brilliant  in  war,  and  under  that  calm  exterior  gifted 
with  such  energy  that  he  had  inspired  the  State 
with  a  new  life,  as  the  last  great  spirit  of  the  old 
Dacian  stock,  that  Julianus  became  seriously 
alarmed,  and  hastened  to  call  a  Council  of  Bishops 
to  ratify  the  accession  of  Ervig  to  the  throne. 


INTRODUCTION  25 

The  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  Wamba 
was  thus  worded:  "As  there  are  some  who,  being 
clothed  in  the  garments  of  penitence  when  in  peril 
of  death,  after  having  recovered,  claim  that  the  vow 
is  not  binding — let  all  such  remember  that  they  are 
baptised  without  will  or  knowledge,  and  yet  no 
man  can  remove  baptism  without  damnation;  as 
it  is  with  baptism,  so  with  monastic  vows,  and  we 
[the  Council]  declare  that  all  who  violate  this  law 
are  worthy  of  the  severest  punishment,  and  are 
incapable  of  holding  any  office  or  civil  dignity 
during  their  natural  lives." 

By  this  it  would  seem  that,  however  the  nation 
clung  to  the  memory  of  the  good  old  king,  yet 
these  once  brave  and  manly  warriors  had  sunk 
into  an  incredibly  superstitious  and  priest-ridden 
nation,  fit  only  to  be  crushed  in  the  hands  of  the 
first  bold  invader,  and  that  all  this  internal  strife 
was  but  as  an  invitation  to  the  Moors  across  the 
Straits,  and  the  Basques  in  the  mountains  of  the 
north,  to  take  advantage  of  their  weakness. 

Of  Ervig  it  is  said  that,  after  a  few  years  passed 
in  vassalage  to  Julianus,  remorse  overcame  him, 
and  he  took  to  his  bed  and  died. 

Under  Witica  the  Court  of  Toledo  was  stained 
with  blood.  He  was  an  ignorant,  arrogant  tyrant, 
who  only  understood  present  advantage  to  him- 
self. To  prevent  possible  rebellion — and  hostile 
parties  were  many  and  ran  high,  as  in  preceding 
reigns — he  dismantled  the  city  walls  and  fortresses, 


26  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

and  in  his  mad  eagerness  for  the  security  of  the 
throne  murdered  every  kinsman  whose  life  lay 
within  his  hand.  Particularly  was  his  insane 
jealousy  directed  against  his  cousin  Favila,  Dux 
of  Cantabria,  who  was  executed,  and  Witica  had 
prepared  the  same  fate  for  his  son  Pelayo,  but  he 
escaped  to  become  later  on  the  saviour  of  his 
country  in  driving  out  the  Moors  from  the  north 
of  Spain. 

Then  his  suspicions  spent  themselves  on  another 
kinsman,  the  Gothic  chief  Theodofredo.  His 
eyes  were  put  out,  and  he  was  imprisoned  in  the 
damp  vault  under  the  castle  of  Cordoba. 

Half  Mussulman,  and  wholly  brutal,  Witica 
ingeniously  united  the  vices  of  both  nations — the 
Iberians  and  the  Goths — and  indulged  in  such  a 
numerous  harem  as  put  even  the  Moors  to  shame. 
In  vain  did  the  Church  thunder  against  this  very 
peccant  son.  Julianus  was  long  dead.  He  laughed 
at  the  threats  of  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  Gothic 
ancestor,  Alaric,  threatened  to  lay  siege  to  Rome. 

"Why, "  cried  he,  when  presiding  in  the  Chapter 
at  Toledo,  clothed  in  his  royal  robes,  the  crown  and 
sceptre  beside  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  trembling 
canons,  who  knew  it  was  at  their  life's  peril  to 
venture  to  contradict  him — "why  shall  not  our 
Gothic  damsels  adorn  themselves  with  the  jewels 
of  the  Vatican,  and  our  coffers  be  replenished 
with  the  treasury  of  St.  Peter's?" 

Incensed  at  the  opposition  of  the  Archbishop 
Sindaredo,  who  dared  to  expostulate  with  him,  he 


INTRODUCTION  27 

appointed  his  own  brother  Opas,  at  heart  as  pro- 
fligate as  himself,  Archbishop  of  Seville,  to  take  his 
seat  along  with  Sindaredo  in  the  episcopal  chair 
of  Toledo.  (Opas  was  the  most  unscrupulous 
prelate  that  ever  wore  the  mitre.  Even  Julianus 
was  his  inferior  in  secular  power,  for  Opas  was  a 
prince,  born  of  the  old  Gothic  stock.) 

"Since  the  Church  of  Toledo  will  not  yield  to 
me,  her  lawful  spouse,"  said  Witica,  with  savage 
sarcasm,  "she  shall,  like  a  harlot,  have  two  hus- 
bands— Sindaredo  and  Opas.  No  foreign  poten- 
tate with  a  triple  crown  shall  preach  to  me. " 

Witica,  bad  as  he  was,  is  yet  entitled  to  be  con- 
sidered as  the  first  reformer.  He  promulgated  a 
law  freeing  the  clergy  from  the  vow  of  celibacy. 
No  threats  or  anathemas  of  any  mitred  Julianus 
stopped  him.  No  obedience  to  monkish  precepts 
governed  his  mind.  He  revelled  in  lawless  licen- 
tiousness, and  in  outraging  the  pietism  of  the 
time.  Of  Witica  it  was  said  that  "he  taught  all 
Spain  to  sin."  Naturally  the  monkish  chronicles 
have  unmercifully  vilified  him.  Yet  there  is 
much  of  the  humoristic  coarseness  of  the  Middle 
Ages  in  his  character ;  a  grotesque  setting  at  naught 
of  all  law  and  convenance,  which  the  fashion  of 
politer  times — not  a  whit  less  vile — softened  and  re- 
fined into  a  quasi -elegance  perhaps  more  repulsive. 

While  the  churches  are  closed  under  an  interdict, 
the  altars  bare,  the  people  disarmed,  the  castles 
and  fortresses  dismantled  lest  they  might  har- 
bour enemies,  and  disorder  and  sensuality  reign 


28  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

unchecked  throughout  the  land,  a  youthful  aveng- 
er is  growing  up  in  the  person  of  Roderich,  son  of 
Theodofredo,  now  dead,  some  say  murdered,  in 
the  gloomy  dungeons  of  Cordoba. 

Of  royal  birth,  reared  and  educated  among  the 
cultivated  Romans,  Roderich  is  not  only  a  bril- 
liant knight,  but  a  master  of  all  the  civilisation  of 
the  age,  prompt  at  all  martial  exercise,  of  graceful 
and  polished  manners,  and  eager  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  his  father  and  of  the  Goths.  Like  a 
meteor,  this  young  hero  flashes  upon  Spain, 
defeats  Witica  "the  Wicked,"  in  a  pitched  battle, 
and  imprisons  him  in  the  same  castle  of  Cordoba, 
where  his  father  has  lately  died.  Not  a  dissent- 
ient voice  is  heard  on  the  battle-field  when  Rod- 
erich, raised  on  a  shield  by  the  soldiers,  as  was 
the  custom  of  his  ancestors,  and  standing  erect 
to  face  the  four  quarters  of  the  world,  is  pro- 
claimed King  of  the  Western  Goths,  in  place  of 
the  sons  of  Witica. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  history  of  the  beautiful 
Moor,  Egilona,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Algiers, 
who  was  at  this  time  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of 
Spain  at  Denia.  As  the  royal  vessel  grounded  on 
the  sand  (says  the  chronicle) ,  the  rabble  of  Denia — 
and  what  a  rabble,  in  all  ages,  is  that  of  Spain,  how 
greedy,  how  rapacious — rushed  into  the  surf,  to 
capture  and  make  spoil.  But  the  grandeur  of  the 
illustrious  company  assembled  on  the  deck  some- 
what awed  them  as  they  paused  with  greedy  eyes, 


INTRODUCTION  29 

— men  and  women,  sumptuously  attired,  facing 
them  with  all  the  haughtiness  of  Oriental  dignity. 
In  the  stern,  closely  pressed  within  a  circle  of  her 
Moslem  guards,  stood  a  lovely  princess,  lightly 
veiled,  her  turban  ablaze  with  jewels,  and  as  the 
vessel  heaved  in  upon  the  swell,  and  the  mob  found 
themselves  close  upon  the  strangers,  scimitars 
flashed  and  jewelled  daggers  gleamed.  Then 
some  of  the  o.der  Moors,  understanding  the  help- 
lessness of  their  position,  leaped  on  shore,  and  fall- 
ing on  their  knees  before  the  alcaide,  who  stood 
by,  unable  to  understand  the  meaning  of  what 
he  saw,  implored  his  mercy  towards  a  royal 
princess. 

"  She  whom  you  behold, "  said  one  sumptuously 
robed  African,  who  seemed  to  lead  the  expedition, 
his  brow  covered  by  a  green  turban,  on  which 
glittered  an  aigrette  of  inestimable  worth,  "is  the 
only  daughter  of  the  King  of  Algiers,  whom  we  are 
conducting  to  her  affianced  husband,  the  King  of 
Tunis.  Foul  winds,  as  you  see,  have  driven  us  on 
your  coast.  We  were  compelled  to  make  for  land, 
or  imperil  the  life  of  our  inimitable  mistress. 
Allah  has  preserved  her.  Do  you,  Sefior  Alcaide, 
not  prove  more  cruel  than  the  waves. " 

The  alcaide,  a  worthy  man,  much  overcome  by 
the  magnificence  of  these  sea-borne  guests,  bowed 
his  head  in  acquiescence,  and  called  on  his  al- 
guazils  to  keep  off  the  crowd.  "  I  will  myself  con- 
duct your  princess  to  the  castle, "  he  replied  to  the 
noble  Moor  who  had  addressed  him.     "Let  her 


3o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

freely  tread  the  Spanish  soil.  It  shall  be  to  her  as 
safe  as  the  African  land  of  her  fathers. " 

"The  castle ! "  cried  the  same  dazzling  Moor  who 
had  already  spoken,  stopping  the  alcaide  short. 
"The  castle!  You  would  then  treat  this  regal 
bride  as  a  captive?  By  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet, 
Senor  Alcaide,  you  do  ill !  Know  that  her  ransom 
will  be  to  you,  and  to  your  race  for  ever,  riches  in- 
calculable, such  as  the  genii  in  dreams  bear  to  the 
faithful — if  you  deal  well  with  her  and  let  her  go. " 

Another  and  another  of  the  circle  of  superbly 
robed  strangers  also  spoke. 

"All  we  have  is  yours,  Sir  Alcaide. " 

The  fair  captive  herself  held  out  her  hands  in 
supplication  towards  the  excellent  magistrate, 
who  stood  perplexed,  as  divided  between  duty 
and  inclination. 

"Will  you,"  she  asked,  in  a  soft  voice,  "im- 
prison one  whom  the  sea  has  set  free?" 

In  vain !  The  honesty  of  this  Spanish  official  is 
a  record  to  all  time.  He  was  a  Goth  of  the  old 
school,  and  cared  neither  for  jewels  nor  gold. 
Much  as  it  moved  him  to  withstand  the  entreaties 
of  so  beautiful  a  creature,  his  sense  of  duty 
conquered. 

"Sir  Moslem,"  he  answered,  afraid  at  first  to 
address  himself  directly  to  the  lady  with  a  churlish 
refusal,  but  singling  out  the  illustrious  Moor, 
whose  words  and  presence  showed  him  to  be  of 
exalted  rank,  "and  you,  fair  and  virtuous  lady, 
whom  the  storm  has  drifted  on  our  shores,  greatly 


INTRODUCTION  31 

does  it  grieve  me  to  say  you  nay,  but  my  loyalty 
to  my  sovereign,  Don  Roderick,  leaves  me  no 
choice.  This  princess, " — pointing  to  the  lady, 
who  had  sunk  back  fainting  in  the  arms  of  her 
attendants,  as  soon  as  she  was  convinced  of  her 
failure  to  move  the  alcaide — "  is  a  royal  captive, 
whom  chance  has  landed  within  the  Gothic  realm. 
Don  Roderich  can  alone  decide  her  fate.  Within 
the  castle  I  command  let  her  seek  shelter  and 
repose,  more  I  cannot  promise." 

To  the  court  at  Toledo  the  beautiful  African 
journeyed,  shedding  many  tears.  To  the  Eastern 
mind  she  was  a  slave,  awaiting  the  will  of  her  new 
master.  Yet  it  was  refreshing  to  her  feelings  to  be 
received  in  every  town  and  castle  with  royal 
honours,  to  be  still  surrounded  by  her  Moorish 
court,  and  to  travel  mounted  on  a  snow-white 
palfrey,  the  wonder  and  astonishment  of  all  who 
beheld  her.  Slave  though  she  was,  her  head  was 
carried  high  as  one  accustomed  to  receive  homage. 
Her  clear,  dark  eyes,  sparkling  and  mild,  shone  out 
under  the  strongly  marked  eyebrows  of  the  East, 
profuse  braids  of  black  hair  hung  loosely  about  her 
neck,  tinkling  with  golden  coins;  a  veil  of  silver 
tissue  was  twined  about  her  head,  to  be  drawn  over 
the  face  and  bosom  at  pleasure,  under  a  turban,  to 
which  a  diadem  was  attached,  decked  with  bright 
feathers;  a  long  tunic,  woven  in  the  looms  of  her 
country,  heavy  with  pearls,  and  trousers  of  a 
transparent  fabric  descended  to  her  feet,  incased 


32  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

in  delicate  slippers,  a  loose  mantle  of  changing 
silk  covering  all.  Nor  was  her  horse  unadorned; 
an  embroidered  saddle-cloth  swept  the  ground, 
the  bridle  and  stirrup  were  inlaid  with  gems,  and 
even  the  shoes  were  wrought  in  gold. 

At  length,  high  over  the  wide  plains  which  en- 
circle Toledo,  the  bulk  of  a  lofty  castle  rises  to  her 
eyes;  the  rock  on  which  it  stands  so  hard  and 
defined  in  outline,  it  seems  as  if  nature  had 
planted  it  there  as  a  pedestal  to  receive  the  burden, 
and  to  guide  the  majestic  current  of  the  Tagus 
through  solemn  denies  round  the  walls. 

There,  as  now,  the  Alcazar  stands,  the  servile 
city  grouping  at  its  base  in  long,  flat  lines,  granite 
rocks  breaking  out  between,  and  giant  buttresses 
bordering  the  deep  flood — a  sadly  tinted  scene, 
terrible  and  weird,  just  touched  with  burning 
flecks  when  the  sun  sets. 

In  a  deep  valley  beside  the  Tagus  Egilona  rested 
under  a  silken  pavilion  prepared  for  her,  to 
await  the  coming  of  the  king.  Gloomy  were  her 
thoughts  on  the  banks  of  that  rock-bound  river, 
black  with  granite  boulders  and  rash  and  hasty 
in  its  course.  What  a  country  was  this,  after  the 
exotic  landscapes  of  Algiers,  the  palmy  groves  and 
plantains,  the  orange  and  lemon  orchards,  the 
ruddy  pomegranates  and  olive  grounds,  and  the 
deep  valleys  of  the  hills!  What  pale,  dismal 
tints!  What  stern,  sunless  skies!  Terror  struck 
to  Egilona' s  heart  as  she  asked  herself  what  kind  of 
man  this  Northern  king  would  be  who  dwelt  in 


INTRODUCTION  33 

that  frowning  castle.  Would  those  walls  enclose 
her  in  a  life-long  prison?  or  would  the  dark  flood 
beside  her  be  her  grave?  Poor  Egilona!  a  captive 
and  a  slave!  How  could  she  guess  the  brilliant 
future  before  her,  when  the  aspect  of  nature  itself 
heightened  her  fears? 

Meanwhile,  descending  by  the  winding  path 
which  proudly  zigzags  down  the  hill,  a  glittering 
cavalcade  reaches  the  archway  of  the  Golden 
Gate  (a  monument  formed  in  all  ages  for  triumph- 
ant conquerors  to  pass  through)  to  defile  upon  the 
bridge  upheld  by  many  piers.  Gothic  chiefs, 
magnificent  in  glittering  armour,  lances,  heavy 
embossed  casques,  and  gold-inlaid  corselets,  riding 
deeply-flanked  horses,  champing  bits  of  gold — 
the  great  princes  of  the  Northern  court,  the  magni- 
ficent successors  of  those  iron-hearted  warriors 
who  well-nigh  conquered  the  world;  mules  with 
embroidered  saddle-cloths,  and  gay  litters  and 
arabas  furnished  with  striped  curtains  for  such 
attendant  demoiselles  as  cannot  ride;  gorgeous 
chariots,  too,  horsed  with  battle-steeds  and  sur- 
rounded by  archers  and  spearmen,  flags  and 
banners  waving  in  the  sun,  pages  and  attendants 
bright  as  exotic  birds ;  and  last  of  all,  more  dazzling 
than  the  rest,,  Roderich  himself,  clad  in  crimson 
robes,  active,  vigorous,  and  graceful,  his  face  aglow 
with  an  excitement  which  heightened  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  his  features. 

For  such  a  reputation  of  comeliness  to  have  come 
down  to  us  from  the  eighth  century  argues  Rode- 

VOL.   I — 3 


34  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

rich  a  royal  Apollo  indeed ;  but  whether  he  favoured 
the  raven,  or  if  his  curling  locks  recalled  the  glow 
of  the  dawn,  can  only  be  conjectured. 

As  he  draws  rein  and  dismounts  before  the 
silken  draperies  of  the  pavilion,  within  which  the 
peerless  Egilona  rests,  his  soul  is  moved  with  tender 
expectation.  He  enters;  their  eyes  meet,  and  he  is 
struck  dumb!  That  mischievous  boy,  Cupid,  has 
pierced  him  with  his  dart,  and  then  and  there  he 
swears  a  silent  oath  that  Egilona  shall  be  his 
queen. 

"Come  to  me,"  he  says,  in  a  soft  voice,  as  he 
bends  on  her  his  glowing  eyes.  "Come  without 
fear.  Let  no  sorrow  cloud  that  royal  brow.  Be- 
side me,  your  path  shall  ever  be  made  smooth,  and 
a  shelter  found,  where  you  shall  rest  alone.  As 
in  the  court  of  your  father,  so  shall  you  be  in 
mine.  All  I  crave  is  leave  to  kiss  your  feet,  most 
incomparable  stranger.  This  favour  you  will 
not  refuse." 

At  which  Egilona,  blushing  to  the  painted  henna 
circles  which  increased  the  splendour  of  her  eyes 
under  his  ardent  gaze,  bows  her  dark  head. 

Then  taking  her  hand,  Roderich,  kissing  the 
delicate  finger-tips  tenderly,  forbade  her  to  kneel 
before  him  as  she  desired.  With  his  own  hands  he 
mounted  her  on  a  palfrey,  and  accompanied  her  up 
the  ascent  to  the  castle,  where  he  installed  her  in  the 
richest  chambers  facing  the  sun.  And,  ever  more 
and  more  enslaved,  the  handsome  young  Goth, 
amorous    by    temperament    and    habit,    became 


IN    THE   CATHEDRAL — CORDOVA. 
From  an  etching  by  Samuel  Colman. 


INTRODUCTION  35 

dearer  and  dearer  to  her,  and  fainter  and  fainter 
grew  the  remembrance  of  her  African  home,  and 
that  Tunisian  bridegroom  she  had  never  seen; 
until,  at  last,  her  dainty  lips  opened  with  a  "Yes,  " 
to  his  entreaties,  and  Egilona  consented  to  become 
a  Christian  and  his  queen. 

Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  love!  All  this  took 
place  in  a  brief  space.  Not  only  Egilona,  but 
many  of  her  Moorish  damsels,  wooed  by  Gothic 
knights,  eloquent  with  the  words  of  passion,  found 
their  arguments  so  convincing,  that  they  also  not 
only  shared  in  her  conversion,  but  followed  her 
example  in  marriage. 

Happy  Egilona!  The  shops  in  the  Yacatin, 
the  Jews'  quarter,  and  the  bales  of  the  African 
merchants  travelling  from  city  to  city,  were 
ransacked  for  her  use.  The  most  precious  mer- 
chandise, silks,  gems,  perfumes,  and  sweetmeats — 
all  that  Europe  and  the  East  possessed  richest  and 
rarest  to  please  a  lady's  eye — were  showered  upon 
her,  when  Don  Roderich  led  her  by  the  broad 
marble  stairs  of  the  Alcazar  into  the  pillared  patio, 
followed  by  her  African  retinue,  down  the  steep 
streets  to  the  Cathedral — very  different  to  what 
we  see  it  now,  though  standing  on  the  same  spot, 
and  in  all  ages  a  fair  and  stately  edifice,  said  to 
have  been  founded  by  the  Virgin  herself.  Child- 
ren, according  toancient  custom,  ran  before  to  throw 
flowers  in  her  path;  and  bowls  filled  with  uncut 
jewels  and  gold  coins  were  presented  to  her  by 
noble    youths    in    silken    robes.     The    wedding 


36  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

chorus  was  sung  as  she  passed  by,  a  poet  reciting 
"  How  the  god  of  love  had  wounded  the  heart  of  the 
king,"  the  Archbishop  Opas  himself  meeting  them  at 
the  great  Puerta,  and  blessing  them  as  they  knelt. 

Jousts,  tournaments  and  banquets,  followed ;  the 
great  chiefs  appearing  resplendent  in  burnished 
armour,  embossed  and  enamelled  in  the  ancient 
style ;  nothing  was  too  costly  for  these  delicate  de- 
scendants of  the  rudely  armed  Alaric;  carpet 
knights,  all  plumes  and  banners  and  worked 
scarfs,  glittering  in  and  out  of  silken  tents;  and 
revelry  and  dances  presided  over  by  the  king  and 
queen. 

For  twenty  days  princes  and  knights,  assembled 
from  all  parts  of  Spain,  kept  holiday  at  Toledo. 
Every  tongue  declared  the  dark-skinned  Egilona 
peerless  among  queens,  and  Don  Roderich  the 
comeliest  of  the  Gothic  race.  Egilona  was  adored 
by  her  Christian  consort.  He  turned  no  more 
longing  eyes  upon  the  venal  fair  who  hitherto  had 
contended  for  his  favour,  and  the  vessel  of  state 
glided  over  a  crystal  sea  to  the  soft  winds  of 
prosperity  under  a  cloudless  sky. 

The  old  lays  and  ballads  make  Roderich,  in  the 
magnificence  of  his  youth,  a  rival  of  the  Cid 
Campeador  himself.  Even  his  mortal  enemies, 
the  Moors,  glorify  him  in  their  songs  sung  to  the 
cither  under  the  orange  groves  of  Granada. 

But  already  the  "cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand"  is  rising  on  the  horizon,  by-and-by  to 
obscure  and  darken  the  sun  of  his  success. 


INTRODUCTION  37 

A  crown  acquired  by  violence  sits  uneasily  on  the 
usurper's  head.  Like  Witica,  Don  Roderich  was 
tormented  with  suspicions  of  conspiracies  and 
treachery  among  his  powerful  nobles.  So  little 
did  the  fate  of  his  ill-starred  predecessor  teach  him 
wisdom,  that  he  permitted  the  same  fears  to  haunt 
him,  of  all  who  were  allied  to  him  by  blood.  Wit- 
ica's  two  sons  were  banished  from  Spain,  and,  to 
avoid  the  chance  of  rebellion,  such  defences  in 
walls  and  castles  as  yet  remained  were  thrown 
down,  and  the  carefully  constructed  fortifications 
of  the  Romans  levelled  to  the  earth.  Nor  could 
a  rude  and  warlike  race  be  expected  to  maintain 
their  early  valour  in  the  midst  of  such  luxury  and 
licentiousness  as  prevailed.  For  two  hundred 
years  the  Gothic  kings  had  held  Spain  by  the 
prowess  of  their  arms,  and  the  simple  habits  of  their 
forefathers — Ataulfo,  Sigeric,  Theodoric,  Alaric, 
Amalaric,  and  his  successors  up  to  the  frugal- 
minded  Wamba,  the  "Farmer  King. " 

Now,  under  Witica  and  Roderich,  effeminacy 
and  sloth  led  on  to  cowardice.  The  Gothic  soldiers 
who  had  been  galvanised  into  a  temporary  show 
of  valour  by  the  recent  strife  between  Witica  and 
Roderich,  soon  sank  back  into  the  inactivity  of  a 
wanton  court,  feasting,  dancing,  and  wassailing  in 
a  style  more  becoming  the  satraps  of  an  Eastern 
potentate  than  the  chiefs  of  a  free  and  generous 
people.  Who  could  have  recognised  in  these 
voluptuous  youths,  who  hung  about  the  person  of 
Don  Roderich,  the  descendants  of  those  stern  and 


2G68o>i_ 


38  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

frugal  Teutonic  heroes  of  the    North,    marching 
down  like  thunder-gods  to  conquer  the  nations? 

Pomp  there  was,  it  is  true,  and  splendour,  and 
civilisation,  and  an  elegance  of  manners  and  of 
thought  unknown  before;  but  the  heart  of  the 
Gothic  nation  was  cankered  at  the  core,  and  the 
warlike  Moors,  ever  on  the  lookout  to  snatch  from 
their  grasp  the  fertile  Peninsula  showing  out  so 
fair  across  the  Straits,  noted  it  with  joy. 


CHAPTER  II 

Don  RxxiericH — GatHering  of  tKe 
CKiefs — Trial  of  AVitica 

|0W  strange  to  think  of  Cordoba 
before  the  Moors,  who  so  imbued 
it  with  the  spirit  of  Moslem 
life!  Those  famous  Caliphs  of 
the  rival  houses  of  Mirvan  and  Ummaija,  and  the 
great  Abdurraman,  whose  wealth  and  luxury 
read  like  a  dream;  Eastern  luxury  in  banquets 
under  painted  domes;  odalisques  and  white-robed 
eunuchs  gliding  beneath  fretted  arches,  vaults  of 
alabaster  and  porphyry ;  harems  with  walls  shed- 
ding showers  of  jasmine  and  rose-leaves,  the  soft 
breathings  of  guzla  and  cither,  dark  heads  crowned 
with  orient  pearls,  and  tissue-robed  Sultanas 
reclining  on  golden  thrones. 

"Kartuba  the  important,"  the  gem  of  the 
Carthaginians, — ancient  when  the  Gentiles  reigned 
in  the  time  of  Moses ;  possessed  in  turn  by  Greeks 
and  Romans,  the  birthplace  of  Seneca,  Lucan, 
Averroes,  and  El  Gran  Capitan  Gonsalvo  Aguilar 
de  Cordoba;  for  ages  the  capital  of  Southern 
Spain, — is  to  be   considered   exclusively,    before 

39 


40  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  advent  of  the  Moors,  as  a  Roman  settlement, 
the  grandly  regular  aspect  of  these  masters  of  the 
world  impressed  upon  its  buildings.  Siding  with 
Pompey  in  the  time  of  the  Republic,  it  was  de- 
stroyed by  the  vengeance  of  Cassar.  Rebuilt  by 
Marcellus  and  repeopled  by  penniless  patricians 
from  Rome,  it  was  for  a  time  called  "Patricia"; 
under  all  names  a  sober  and  dignified  capital 
gathered  round  its  ancient  castle  on  the  banks 
of  the  Guadalquivir. 

At  all  times  Cordoba  is  beautiful ;  the  verdant 
slopes  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  rising  precipitously 
from  the  very  gates,  look  down  serenely  on  the 
strife  of  rival  peoples;  lovely  retreats,  dotted  with 
white  quintas,  farms,  mills,  vineyards,  and  olive- 
grounds;  the  rugged  summits  rising  westwards 
to  the  limits  of  Lusitania;  the  lazy  Guadalquivir 
flowing  at  their  base,  through  grassy  plains  dark 
with  orange  and  myrtle. 

Now  what  a  desolation!  A  solitary  shepherd 
pipes  to  his  flock,  as  he  passes  at  the  Ave  Maria,  on 
the  lonely  road ;  a  file  of  mules  carrying  bricks  or 
corn  succeed  him ;  a  ragged  goatherd  watches  his 
kids  grazing  beside  the  river,  and  droves  of  swine 
burrow  in  the  mould  once  trodden  by  the  steps 
of  heroes!  Two  boldly  crenelated  towers  and  a 
portion  of  the  outer  walls,  rising  from  an  ancient 
garden  of  exceeding  sweetness,  are  all  that  remains 
of  the  palace  and  fortress  of  the  Gothic  kings. 
Thickets  of  roses  and  lilacs  engulf  you  as  you  enter, 
broad  palm  leaves  shroud  decay,  and  quivering 


DON  RODERICH  41 

cane-brakes  whisper  softly  of  the  past.  A  little 
to  the  left  rises  a  lower  tower,  grey  against  the  sky, 
another  and  another,  the  stones  scarcely  held  to- 
gether by  entwining  ropes  of  ivy — all  that  remains 
of  the  royal  castle. 

In  the  prison  beneath,  on  a  level  with  the  Guadal- 
quivir, the  noble  Theodofredo,  father  of  Rode- 
rich,  languishes,  deprived  of  sight  by  red-hot  irons 
held  before  the  eyes,  a  favourite  mode  of  torture, 
borrowed,  like  all  that  is  degraded,  from  the 
Byzantines.  Now  Witica,  who  commanded  this 
savage  act,  has  taken  his  place  in  the  same 
prison,  and  is  to  be  judged  by  Theodofredo's  son. 
Wiser  would  it  be,  and  more  merciful,  if  Roderich 
should  forego  this  vengeance.  But  with  power 
have  come  the  savage  instincts  of  his  race.  The 
indulgence  of  his  life  has  already  begun  to  tell 
on  his  once  generous  nature.  Little  by  little,  he 
has  fallen  from  the  high  position  of  regenerator  of 
Spain,  and,  led  on  by  evil  counsel  and  a  natural 
weakness  inherent  in  his  nature,  has  adopted  the 
same  false  and  cruel  principles  of  government 
which  he  was  called  to  the  throne  to  reform. 

Within  a  broad  vaulted  hall,  the  high  roof 
supported  by  carved  rafters,  the  walls  hung  with 
tapestry  woven  with  silver  thread — in  which  the 
stories  of  Gothic  victories  are  rudely  depicted — 
Roderich  sits  on  a  low  silver  throne.  It  is  shaped 
like  a  shield,  in  remembrance  of  the  early  custom  of 
the  nomad  chiefs,  his  ancestors,   who,  when  in- 


42  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

vested  with  military  command,  were  three  times, 
standing  upon  a  shield,  carried  round  the  camp, 
on  the  shoulders  of  stalwart  Goths.  A  rich  mantle 
of  purple  brocade  covers  a  lightly  wrought  cuirass 
inlaid  with  gold.  The  Gothic  crown,  which  has, 
in  the  altered  manners  of  the  time,  come  to  be  not 
of  iron  but  of  gold,  set  with  resplendent  jewels, 
rests  upon  his  head,  almost  concealed  by  luxuriant 
masses  of  hair,  falling  on  neck  and  shoulders,  in 
beard  and  love-locks.  His  buskins  are  red,  like 
the  Eastern  emperors',  and  his  feet,  shod  with 
pearled  sandals,  rest  on  an  inlaid  footstool.  The 
sceptre  lies  beside  him  with  his  sword,  and  over  his 
head  is  a  raised  canopy  of  cloth  of  gold,  decorated 
with  inscriptions  in  Runic  characters  and  quaint 
devices,  come  down  from  early  times. 

Around  are  the  chiefs  and  nobles  of  the  nation, 
gathered  from  all  quarters  of  Spain — to  judge  him 
who  lately  was  their  king.  All  are  men  of  war, 
habited  in  the  superb  but  cumbrous  armour  of  the 
time,  before  the  delicate  handling  of  the  Moor 
turned  metal  into  thin  plates  of  steel,  made  swords 
as  fine  and  piercing  as  needles,  and  armory  a 
science. 

Nearest  to  Roderich  stands  Ataulfo,  next  in 
succession  to  the  throne,  a  generous-hearted 
youth,  full  of  the  old  virtues  of  his  nation.  With 
much  of  the  ruddy  countenance  of  the  king,  he 
shows  his  Northern  origin  in  the  chestnut  locks 
which  escape  from  his  burnished  cap,  and  a  certain 
blond  fairness  in  spite  of  exposure  to  a  southern  sun. 


THE   CLOISTERS,    TOLEDO. 


GATHERING  OF  THE  CHIEFS  43 

Teodomir,  a  veteran  general,  comes  next;  as  too 
rigid  a  disciplinarian  for  the  degenerate  times,  he 
has  somewhat  fallen  into  neglect  among  the 
younger  chiefs  who  have  risen  to  power  with  the  ac- 
cession of  the  king.  Teodomir  is  well  past  the 
prime  of  life,  but  retains  the  keen  eye  and  stalwart 
limbs  of  youth,  as  at  the  head  of  an  army  he  will 
show  before  many  years  are  past.  The  historic 
warrior,  Pelistes,  is  here  too,  already  sunk  into 
the  vale  of  years,  but,  like  Teodomir,  strong  and 
ready  of  hand  and  purpose,  his  grizzled  hair 
shading  a  noble  countenance.  These  two  trusty 
chiefs,  who  present  themselves  in  the  antiquated 
armour  of  the  Goths,  were  close  friends  of 
Roderich's  father,  and  were  specially  active  in 
raising  the  hasty  levies  for  the  battle  which  placed 
his  son  on  the  throne;  spite  of  which  services,  as 
time  goes  by,  they  find  themselves  somewhat  dis- 
regarded by  the  young  king,  who  listens  to  more 
flattering  counsels  and  secretly  laughs  at  the 
rustic  virtues  applauded  in  the  days  of  Recaredo 
and  Wamba. 

The  royal  lad  Pelayo  is  also  bidden,  the  son  of 
that  Favila,  Dux  of  Cantabria,  put  to  death  by 
Witica,  when  he  purposed  to  slaughter  all  of  his 
blood.  Pelayo  stands  somewhat  back  as  becomes 
his  youth,  for  who  can  guess  that  this  beardless  boy, 
with  a  smiling,  artless  face,  and  full  blue  Northern 
eyes  will,  by  his  fortitude,  become  the  founder  of 
a  new  race  of  Gothic  kings,  and  by  his  endurance 
and  valour  raise  up  a  native  dynasty  in  Spain? 


44  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

A  crowd  of  young  courtiers,  most  careful  of  the 
adornment  of  their  persons,  fill  up  the  space  be- 
hind, apparelled  in  long  embroidered  mantles  of 
many  brilliant  shades,  held  in  by  jewelled  cinctures 
and  buckles,  elaborately  worked  caps  upon  their 
heads  (the  first  idea  of  the  later  toque  of  the 
Renaissance) — fashions  which  have  taken  the 
place  of  the  short  tunic,  leather  girdle,  and  heavy 
head-piece  of  former  times. 

Beside  these  stands  one  on  whom  all  eyes  are 
turned.  Stern  and  composed  of  aspect,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  possession  of  such  power  that  he  is 
cautious  of  displaying  it.  His  name  is  Julian,  and 
it  is  he  who  chiefly  seconded  the  rising  in  favour 
of  Roderich.  Yet  this  man,  Espatorios  of  Spain, 
Lord  of  Consuegra  and  Algeciras,  commander  of  the 
Goths  on  the  African  seaboard,  and  governor  of 
Ceuta,  half  royal  himself,  is  a  dangerous  subject 
and  a  doubtful  friend.  Why  he  supported  Rode- 
rich is  the  enigma  of  the  day;  he  had  but  to 
stretch  out  his  hand  to  seize  the  crown  himself, 
and  with  a  much  more  legitimate  claim.  The 
ambition  of  his  wife  Frandina  is  well  known,  and 
that  she  chafes  at  her  inferior  position,  and  shuns 
the  Court  of  Toledo  and  the  royal  house  since 
Egilona  is  the  queen;  yet,  strange  to  say,  Julian 
as  yet,  has  never  swerved  in  his  allegiance  to 
Roderich.  If  any  dark  purpose  of  treason  is  brood- 
ing in  his  soul,  as  yet  it  appears  not.  To  this 
time  he  is  faithful,  and  is  now  present  at  Cordoba 
to  judge  his  own  near  kinsman  Witica  for  divers 


GATHERING  OF  THE  CHIEFS  45 

misdeeds,  but  principally  for  his  share  in  the  death 
of  Roderich's  father,  Theodofredo. 

What  that  judgment  will  be  is  very  plain  to  see. 
Rather  to  behold  the  wretched  tyrant  die  than  to 
judge  him  are  they  all  assembled  there,  for  the 
settled  purpose  in  the  mind  of  Roderich  is  revenge. 

If  Julian  is  an  enigma,  much  more  so  is  his 
smooth-faced  brother-in-law,  Opas,  Archbishop  of 
Seville,  brother  of  the  fallen  king,  and  his  aider 
and  abettor  in  all  his  vice  and  cruelty.  A  very 
Judas  in  cunning  is  Opas,  who,  with  the  fall  of  the 
supremacy  of  the  Church  has,  for  the  sake  of 
power,  accommodated  himself  to  the  new  ideas,  and 
looks  out  now  upon  the  course  of  events  with  a 
cold  eye.  What  are  his  present  motives?  None 
can  guess.  Yet  in  the  fiendish  treachery  and  bitter 
hatred  he  came  later  to  display  towards  Roderich 
some  explanation  may  be  found  in  the  cruel 
punishment  he  inflicted  on  his  unfortunate  brother. 
But  the  present  unnatural  compliance  of  Opas, 
even  in  these  rough  days,  is  looked  on  with  dis- 
gust. There  he  stands,  however,  scornfully  in- 
different to  what  men  think,  clothed  in  a  rich 
cope  and  jewel-adorned  dalmatica,  a  double  tiara 
on  his  head,  resplendent  with  gems,  for  as  he  is  in 
the  presence  of  one  king,  to  judge  another  who  has 
worn  the  crown,  Opas  has  arrayed  himself  in  the 
splendid  paraphernalia  of  his  double  office  of 
Archbishop  of  Seville  and  of  Toledo.  Attended 
by  two  deacons  he  presents  the  very  picture  of  the 
prelate  of  the  day,  ready  to  lead  in  war,  or  govern 


46  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

in  peace;  a  cross  upon  his  neck,  his  waist  girded 
with  a  sword,  and  his  feet  cased  in  steel. 

More  than  any  one  else  present,  however,  the 
royal  lad  Pelayo,  for  whom  so  romantic  a  future  is 
in  store,  is  personally  interested  in  the  punishment 
of  Witica,  the  murderer  of  his  father;  yet  the  com- 
posure of  his  face  and  the  carelessness  of  his  atti- 
tude, as  he  leans  against  one  of  the  columns  that 
uphold  the  raftered  roof,  are  as  if  he  were  but  one 
among  the  many.  Outwardly  he  betrays  no  con- 
sciousness of  his  great  wrong.  Death  and  torture 
are  familiar  to  the  Gothic  mind,  and,  like  the  rest, 
he  appears  prepared  to  abide  by  the  judgment  of 
the  king. 

The  heavy  hangings  shrouding  the  southern 
entrance  to  the  hall  are  drawn  aside,  and,  with  a 
rush  of  sunshine  and  scent  of  aromatic  herbs  and 
odorous  flowers,  Witica  appears,  led  in  by  slaves, 
heavy  chains  clanking  at  his  feet,  and  manacles 
binding  his  arms.  Common  woollen  garments  of 
a  dark  colour  cling  to  his  emaciated  frame,  and  his 
long,  unkempt  hair  streams  down  to  his  waist.  So 
greatly  is  he  changed  that  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  recognise  the  lineaments  of  the  jubilant  and 
gross-featured  voluptuary  in  this  thin,  care- 
ravaged  face.  As  he  slowly  approaches  the  throne 
upon  which  Roderich  is  seated,  he  stops  abruptly. 
The  rude  guards  on  either  side  push  him  on,  and 
weighted  by  the  grasp  of  the  fetters  he  falls  help- 
lessly forward  on  his  knees.  Thus  he  remains 
motionless.     No  friendly  hand  is  outstretched  to 


TRIAL  OF  WITICA  47 

help  him— the  miserable  king.  Not  a  single  eye 
in  that  assembly  softens  with  a  pitying  glance. 

A  wan,  craven  look  comes  over  his  face  as  he 
raises  his  eyes  beseechingly  to  the  superb  young 
monarch  who  has  taken  his  place — so  miserable  an 
object,  that  whatever  have  been  his  crimes  it  seems 
impossible  he  can  now  inspire  anything  but  pity. 
But  Don  Roderich  thinks  otherwise;  he  contem- 
plates the  wretched  figure  before  him  with  a  stern 
glance.  Then,  turning  to  the  assembled  chiefs 
and  addressing  himself  more  especially  to  Julian, 
standing  as  sword-bearer  at  the  right  of  the  throne, 
he  speaks  in  a  hard,  resonant  voice: 

"In  this  man  you  behold  the  butcher  of  my 
father.  To  amuse  his  caprice,  he  put  out  his  eyes 
and  imprisoned  him  in  the  dungeon  of  this  castle 
until,  worn  out  by  suffering,  he  died.  My  father, " 
he  repeats,  in  a  ringing  voice,  which  sounds  hollow 
in  the  vast  bare  hall,  "the  noble  Theodofredo, 
whose  only  crime  was  being  born  near  the  throne. " 

As  he  speaks  there  is  so  cruel  an  echo  in  his 
voice,  the  miserable  Witica  shivers  and  cowers 
still  lower  on  the  floor.  Never  possessed  of  much 
intelligence  it  would  seem  as  if  the  long  imprison- 
ment and  certainty  of  death  have  deadened  within 
him  the  little  sense  he  has.  Dragged  from  the 
darkness  of  a  dungeon  into  the  full  light  of  day, 
before  the  varied  pageant  of  a  court  once  his  own, 
his  brain  has  become  confused.  A  dreadful  horror 
is  all  he  feels. 

"What  punishment,"  continues  Don  Roderich, 


48  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"think  you,  noble  Goths,  most  revered  arch- 
bishop, and  brother  chiefs,  should  be  inflicted  on 
him  for  this  death,  and  all  the  evil  he  has  wrought 
in  Spain?" 

"My  lord,"  replies  Julian,  bowing  low,  ap- 
parently unmoved  by  the  miserable  object  grovel- 
ling before  him,  "that  is  a  personal  matter,  which 
you  alone  can  decide.  The  wrongs  of  a  father 
are  the  wrongs  of  his  child." 

"That  is  my  mind  also,"  briefly  spoke  the 
veteran  Teodomir.  "And  mine — and  mine,"  ran 
round  the  warlike  circle,  to  whom  the  soft  attri- 
bute of  mercy  was  unknown — "blood  calls  for 
blood.     Such  is  the  law  of  our  ancestors. " 

Loud,  too,  in  assent  was  heard  the  voice  of 
Pelistes,  moved  to  something  like  feeling,  as  the 
image  of  his  friend,  the  noble  Theodofredo,  rose 
to  his  mind,  condemned  to  a  slow  death  within  the 
very  castle  in  which  they  stand.  For  the  shifting 
of  the  Gothic  Court  to  Cordoba,  for  the  trial  of 
Witica  on  the  very  spot  where  Theodofredo  suf- 
fered was  indeed  a  master-stroke  on  the  part  of 
Roderich  to  heighten  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  in- 
tensity not  only  the  acuteness  of  his  own  ven- 
geance, but  the  sanguinary  passions  of  the  Goths. 

While  each  noble  gives  assent,  the  young  Pelayo 
grows  very  pale.  Was  not  Favila,  his  father,  lord 
of  the  wide  district  of  Cantabria,  on  the  iron- 
bound  coast,  besides  the  range  of  the  Asturian 
mountains,  a  Northern  king  in  all  but  the  name? 
Was  not  Favila  also  cruelly  put  to  death.     And 


TRIAL  OF  WITICA  49 

had  not  Witica  sought  to  lay  his  murderous  hands 
on  him  also?  Yet  no  man  heeded.  The  death 
of  Favila  passed  unnoticed,  and  Roderich,  at 
best  but  a  usurper,  and  Roderich 's  wrongs  are 
alone  in  every  mouth !  Too  young  to  remonstrate 
with  these  elder  chiefs,  the  heart  of  Pelayo  chafes 
in  silent  indignation,  and  he  swears  to  himself  that 
if  he  lives,  the  day  shall  come  when  ancient  Iberia 
shall  ring  with  the  forgotten  name  of  his  sire ! 

"And  you,  most  venerable  archbishop,"  con- 
tinues Roderich,  turning  to  address  himself  to 
Opas,  who,  as  if  some  claim  of  kindred  had  sounded 
at  his  heart,  had  further  withdrawn  himself  when 
Witica  appeared,  and  stood  so  placed  as  to  conceal 
the  view  of  the  pathetic  spectacle  before  him — 
"you  who,  by  your  presence  here  this  day,  give 
us  so  signal  a  proof  of  your  loyalty,  what  seems  to 
you  just  in  this  matter,  so  closely  touching  your- 
self? We  would  willingly  carry  the  Church  with 
us.  Speak  your  mind  freely,  nor  let  our  royal 
presence  in  aught  prejudice  the  prisoner." 

"  My  lord, "  answers  Opas,  in  a  voice  which,  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  steady  it,  still  sounds  scarcely  in 
its  natural  tone,  "my  vote  lies  with  my  kinsman, 
Julian.  In  a  matter  so  nearly  concerning  myself 
as  a  brother's  life  and  death,  it  fitteth  best  for  me 
to  be  silent." 

Something  in  the  familar  tones  of  his  voice, 
some  subtle  affinity  of  blood  betwixt  brother  and 
brother,  struck  the  dull  sense  of  Witica.  As 
Opas  spoke  he  raised  his  head,  and,  as  he  seemed  to 


5o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

listen,  a  sickly  smile  played  for  a  moment  about  his 
sunken  lips,  and  a  more  human  expression  passed 
into  his  eyes.  Listening,  listening  eagerly,  as  if 
expecting  some  help,  a  wistful  gleam  of  hope 
striking  across  the  depths  of  blank  despair,  his 
glance  swept  upwards  with  a  pleading  impotency 
terrible  to  behold,  the  vibration  as  it  were  of  some 
subtle  instrument  set  mysteriously  in  motion. 
Watching  for  what  was  to  come,  with  open  mouth 
and  anxious  eyes,  thus  he  remained  some  time,  then 
gradually  the  tension  ceased,  the  heavy  eye  clouded, 
the  jaw  dropped,  and  the  head,  with  its  shaggy, 
unkempt  locks,  freely  mixed  with  grey,  once  more 
sank  hopelessly  on  his  breast.  All  this  occupied 
but  the  space  of  a  few  minutes. 

Don  Roderich  spoke  once  more.  "Witica, " 
says  he,  lowering  his  eyes  to  the  level  of  the  pro- 
strate king,  "you  have  heard  the  judgment  of  your 
kinsmen  and  those  who  were  your  former  subjects. 
What  have  you  to  answer?" 

An  inarticulate  sound  breaks  the  silence.  Witi- 
ca makes  a  feeble  effort  to  raise  himself  in  the  arms 
of  the  slaves,  who  have  never  withdrawn  their  hold, 
opens  his  mouth  to  answer,  and  then  falls  back 
speechless. 

The  Goths  were  ever  a  people  cruel  and  savage 
in  their  laws,  but  so  terrible  a  spectacle  as  that  one, 
lately  monarch  in  the  land,  should  have  fallen  into 
such  a  strait  might  have  touched  even  the  heart  of 
an  enemy,  how  much  more  kinsmen  so  nearly 
allied  to  him?     But  it  was  not  so,  neither  did  any 


TRIAL  OF  WITICA  51 

generous  impulse  move  the  king  from  his  cruel 
purpose.  With  the  kindling  eye  of  vengeance 
Roderich  contemplates  what  was  left  of  that 
Witica  whose  kingdom  he  had  seized,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  give  sentence  in  clear,  ringing  tones, 
audible  in  every  corner  of  the  hall. 

"Let  the  evil  Witica  has  wrought  on  others  be 
visited  on  himself.  The  eyes  of  my  father  Theodo- 
fredo  were  put  out  by  his  order,  even  so  be  it  done 
with  him.  In  the  same  dungeon  here  at  Cordoba, 
where  my  father  died,  shall  his  life  end.  Away 
with  the  prisoner." 

The  sounds  of  approval  which  follow  these 
words,  especially  from  the  group  of  young  court- 
iers, serve  in  some  sort  to  drown  the  piercing 
shrieks  which  break  from  Witica  when  his  dulled 
senses  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  the  sentence. 
Quick  as  thought  he  is  borne  away,  and  the  spot 
where  he  has  lain  is  rapidly  covered  by  the  feet 
of  the  crowd  of  chiefs  and  princes  who  gather 
in  groups  in  front  of  the  throne. 

With  a  careless  laugh  Roderich  descends  the 
marble  steps  on  which  the  throne  is  placed,  and 
placing  his  crown  in  the  hands  of  a  daintily  ap- 
parelled page,  moves  freely  about  among  his  nobles. 
The  friends  of  his  father,  Pelistes  and  Teofredo, 
coming  from  Murcia,  are  specially  greeted.  To 
the  Archbishop  Opas  he  again  addresses  himself 
with  the  studied  courtesy  he  learned  in  civil- 
ised Italy.  But  again  Pelayo  is  passed  over  in 
silence,  an  affront  which  calls  up  a  flush  of  anger 


52  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

on  his  face,  as  he  silently  turns  and  leaves  the  hall. 
At  last,  singling  out  Julian,  Roderich  moves  aside 
under  the  range  of  the  low  pillars  which  divide  the 
hall. 

"This  judgment,"  says  he,  speaking  with 
caution,  "relieves  my  mind  of  much  care.  Witica 
has  been  condemned  by  those  of  his  own  blood. 
Brother,  brother-in-law,  and  kinsmen  have  joined 
together  to  make  secure  my  position  on  the  throne. 
The  dam  indeed  is  scotched,  but  what  of  the 
lambkins?  Witica  will  be  executed  forthwith, 
but  his  sons  remain.  Where  are  they?  While 
they  live  the  kingdom  will  never  be  safe  from 
traitors." 

"  Have  no  fear,  my  lord, "  answered  Julian,  who, 
through  all  this  painful  scene  seemed  to  be  lost  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  expression  of  the  king,  as 
a  student  pores  over  the  page  of  a  precious  manu- 
script, the  sense  of  which  may  escape  him  by  its 
obscurity.  What  manner  of  man  is  this  they  have 
chosen,  he  was  asking  himself?  Was  Roderich  as 
ferocious  as  he  seemed?  Or  was  his  conduct  but 
the  effort  of  a  vacillating  mind  to  play  the  tyrant 
to  excess,  conscious  of  an  inherent  weakness? 
And  as  he  watched  him,  a  feeling  of  deadly  hatred 
came  over  him  for  the  commission  of  the  very  act 
of  cruelty  he  had  just  sanctioned.  But  his  answer 
to  Roderich's  question  was  as  unmoved  as  though 
no  hostile  sentiments  were  warring  within  him. 

"The  youths  are  already  fled  to  Africa,  my  lord, 
where   the   Spanish   Governor   of   Tangiers   har- 


moil  £^pV  arb  bnj 


The  Alhambra,  Granada,  and  the  Vega  from 
the  Generalife. 

ict  but 
.tnt 


TRIAL  OF  WITICA  53 

bours  them  out  of  gratitude  to  their  father.  Let 
them  rest,  they  will  not  trouble  you. " 

"You  say  well,  count,"  answers  Roderich  in  a 
light  tone;  "vengeance  for  my  father  is  a  duty. 
For  awhile  we  will  grant  them  life,  but  later  they 
must  pay  the  forfeit  of  Witica's  crimes.  But  now 
to  other  matters.  How  fares  the  Lady  Frandina, 
your  virtuous  consort,  and  the  young  Florinda, 
whom  report  extols  as  beautiful  beyond  measure?  " 

The  manners  of  the  king  were  frank  and  sol- 
dierly, and  history  records  that  he  possessed  to  a 
great  degree  that  winning  demeanour  which  charms 
in  the  high  ones  of  the  earth.  To  Julian,  whose 
powerful  aid  had  mainly  helped  him  to  the  posses- 
sion of  the  crown,  he  had  hitherto  shown  a  de- 
ference that  flattered  while  it  controlled.  To  Don 
Roderich's  question  Julian  answered  with  a  smile: 
"It  is  well  with  my  consort,  who  is  at  our  castle 
of  Algeciras;  she  bade  me  greet  your  grace.  As 
to  my  daughter,  it  was  of  her  I  was  about  to 
speak.  Florinda  is  with  me  in  Cordoba.  I  have 
brought  her  as  a  fair  present  and  hostage  to  your 
bride,  Queen  Egilona,  to  attend  on  her,  along  with 
the  other  noble  damsels  of  the  court,  and  to  learn 
those  lessons  of  virtue  and  excellence  in  which  she 
is  paramount.  Will  you,  my  lord,  be  my  surety 
with  the  queen?  " 

"That  will  I,  gladly,"  answers  Don  Roderich, 
his  countenance  lighting  up  with  a  gracious  smile. 
"The  confidence  which  you  repose  in  me  is  of  all 
else  the  crown  and  proof  of  your  loyalty.     As 


54  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

such  I  accept  it.  To  me  Florinda  shall  be  as  a 
daughter.  I  will  watch  over  her  as  yourself,  and 
see  that  she  is  trained  in  the  same  rigid  principles 
of  piety  which  honour  her  mother's  name. " 

Julian,  his  pale,  olive-skinned  face  flushed  with 
the  gratification  these  words  afford,  bows  low. 
"  Florinda, "  he  replies,  "is  but  a  timid  girl  brought 
up  by  her  mother's  side,  as  yet  unacquainted  with 
the  state  which  fittingly  surrounds  Queen  Egilona. 
You  will  pardon  her  inexperience;  she  is  quick  and 
sensitive  of  nature,  and  keen  to  appreciate  kind- 
ness. It  is  by  her  wish  that  she  will  attend  the 
queen;  I  have  but  followed  her  own  desire.  Her 
mother  indeed  consented,  but  unwillingly,  to  part 
with  her. " 

"This  is  welcome  news.  It  is  as  a  shaft  which 
tells  both  ways,  in  the  sentiment  of  attachment 
in  which  she  has  been  reared,  and  of  the  mind  of 
the  fair  maid  herself.  No  parents  shall  be  tenderer 
or  more  careful  than  we  to  her.  Would  that  I 
had  a  son  to  match  with  her  in  marriage. " 

"And  now,"  says  Julian,  making  a  low  obei- 
sance, "I  will  crave  to  be  permitted  to  withdraw; 
my  presence  is  demanded  in  my  government. 
The  Moors  have  received  considerable  reinforce- 
ments, and  advance  upon  Ceuta  from  the  neigh- 
bouring hills.  By  way  of  Damascus  they  come, 
despatched  by  Almanzor  from  Bagdad,  called  by 
those  unbelievers  'The  sword  of  God.'  Our 
Gothic  province  on  the  margin  of  the  Straits  needs 
vigorous  and  constant  watching." 


TRIAL  OF  IVITICA  55 

"And  it  is  for  that  reason, "  is  Roderich's  reply, 
"  that  I  have  placed  the  government  in  your  hands, 
valiant  Espatorios,  first  and  most  trusted  of  all 
my  Gothic  chiefs." 

"I  will  do  my  duty,  my  lord,"  is  the  rejoinder. 
"You  need,  I  trust,  no  assurance  of  this ;  but,  spite  of 
precautions,  I  fear  greatly  that  a  battle  or  a  siege 
is  imminent.  The  Moslems  are  gathered  in  such 
numbers,  savage  tribes  of  Arabs  and  Berbers,  under 
the  Moorish  general,  Mousa  ben  Nozier  of  Damas- 
cus, and  his  son  Abd-el-asis,  that  it  will  need  all 
our  resources  to  baffle.  Mousa  swears  that  he 
will  drive  the  Cross  from  the  confines  of  Africa, 
and  raise  the  Crescent  on  every  Christian  fortress 
we  hold  in  Tingitana. " 

"This  is  a  confirmation  of  evil  news,"  replies 
Don  Roderich,  whose  beaming  countenance  had 
darkened  as  Julian  gave  these  details.  "I  am  well 
advised  of  the  concentration  of  the  Arabs  in  the 
north  of  Africa.  I  but  awaited  your  coming  to 
confirm  it.  But  had  you  not  been  present  with 
the  archbishop  it  would  have  been  argued  in  the 
nation  that  as  his  relative  you  disapproved  my 
sentence.  Now  we  are  hand  in  hand.  Command 
all  the  resources  of  the  mainland  to  drive  the  in- 
vaders back.  Light  sloops  can  be  run  from 
Algeciras  to  Ceuta  with  soldiers  and  arms." 

"My  lord,  I  have  enough;  should  a  siege  be 
threatened  every  mouth  has  to  be  fed.  But  it  is 
to  me,  the  leader,  that  the  Christians  look.  It  is  I 
who  am  needed  on  the  coast  of  Barbary.     I  have 


56  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

personally,  too,  great  credit  with  the  Moors;  they 
are  noble  enemies." 

"  I  doubt  it  not, "  is  Roderich's  answer.  "Wher- 
ever my  trusty  Espatorios  draws  the  sword, 
victory  follows." 

"  My  lord,  it  was  but  to  excuse  my  hasty  parting, 
not  to  ask  for  more  supplies,  that  I  spoke.  To 
know  that  my  daughter  is  well  disposed  of  in  a 
safe  asylum  is  a  balm  to  me  greater  than  any  boon 
you  could  bestow.  My  wife,  Frandina,  fights  by 
my  side.  I  have  no  fear  for  her,  and  our  son  is  con- 
signed to  the  care  of  the  Archbishop  Opas.  Now, 
thanks  to  you,  my  lord,  I  am  free-handed  to  face 
the  Moors.  I  have  but  to  settle  more  matters 
connected  with  Florinda,  and  to  depart.  The 
queen  is  at  Toledo;  I  must  accompany  her  thither." 

"By  no  means,"  cries  Don  Roderich,  "unless 
such  is  your  wish.  She  shall  go  with  me,  accom- 
panied by  suitable  attendants.  I  myself  will  pre- 
sent her  to  Egilona  as  our  child. " 

Meanwhile,  the  assemblage  had  gradually  di- 
minished. Each  chief  was  in  haste  to  depart,  for 
the  country  was  full  of  enemies,  more  especially  in 
the  south  and  east,  where  the  vessels  of  the  Moors 
continually  landed  Berbers  and  Arabs  to  plunder 
and  carry  off  the  inhabitants  as  slaves.  That 
serious  invasion  was  near  at  hand  all  understood, 
except  perhaps  Roderich  and  the  idle  young  Goths 
who  formed  his  court.  As  yet,  it  is  true,  Don 
Julian  held  the  enemy  at  bay  in  Africa,  but,  his 
presence   or  his  support   withdrawn,    the   Moors 


TRIAL  OF  WITICA  57 

would  pour  like  a  torrent  on  the  land,  and,  save 
for  a  few  of  the  old  leaders  who  had  survived  the 
disastrous  reign  of  Witica,  and  the  enervating 
atmosphere  spreading  everywhere  from  the  court 
into  all  ranks,  who  was  there  to  oppose  them? 


CHAPTER  III 

Don  RodericK's  Perfidy 

HE  court  life  shifts  from  the  green 
Sierras  of  Cordoba  to  the  old  city 
of  Toledo.  Again  we  are  in  the 
corn-bearing  plains,  the  outlines 
of  the  domes,  pinnacles,  and  turrets  of  the  Alcazar 
before  us  gay  and  jocund  with  the  security  of 
two  hundred  years  of  Gothic  rule.  What  foot- 
steps have  echoed  through  those  courts!  What 
regal  presences  haunt  them !  Iberian,  Roman,  and 
Gothic;  Recaredo,  Wamba,  Witica,  and  comely 
Roderich;  to  be  followed  by  Moors,  and  Castilian 
kings;  El  Caballero,  El  Emplazado,  El  Valente, 
El  Impotente ;  a  red  haired  bastard  of  Trastamare 
succeeding  his  brother  Don  Pedro  el  Cruel,  a 
swaggering  Alfonso,  Velasque's,  Philip,  the  staid 
dowager-queen  Berenguela,  fair  Isabel  the  Catho- 
lic, the  widow  of  Philip  the  Fourth,  the  mother  of 
Charles  el  Soco,  Johana  el  Loca,  not  to  forget 
the  Cid,  first  Christian  alcaide  and  governor;  a 
palace  in  old  times  marking  the  utmost  limits  of 
the  known  world,  beyond  which  the  East  looked 
into  the  hyperborean  darkness  of  the  West;  the 
geographical  centre  of  all  Spain — supremely  regal, 

58 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  59 

its  foundations  laid  in  legend,  and  its  ramparts 
raised  in  the  glamour  of  Oriental  song;  a  refuge 
from  Moorish  invasion  for  the  defenceless  Goth, 
and  the  superb  residence  of  later  kings.  In  a 
hollow  beneath  rise  the  towers  of  the  cathedral, 
and  the  outline  of  many  ancient  synagogues,  for 
the  Jews  were  always  powerful  in  Toledo — El 
Transito  and  El  Blanco  are  the  principal  ones,  and 
hospitals  for  the  chosen  race.  If  Toledo  was  the 
Gothic  capital,  it  was  also  long  before  known 
under  the  name  of  "  Toledo th, "  where  the  Jews 
came  in  great  numbers  after  the  sack  of  Jerusalem 
by  Nebuchadnezzar. "  The  Jews  fled  to  Tarshish, ' ' 
says  the  Bible,  and  Tarshish  is  the  scriptural 
name  for  Southern  Spain. 

Other  churches  and  oratories  there  were,  for 
the  Goths  were  a  pious  people,  also  the  house  of 
Wamba  over  the  Tagus,  and  the  mystic  tower  of 
Hercules,  rising  on  a  rock,  the  entrance  guarded  by 
an  inscription  setting  forth  "that  whenever  a  king 
passes  the  threshold,  the  empire  of  Spain  shall  fall" ; 
a  warning  much  respected  by  the  Gothic  kings — 
Wamba,  Ervig,  Eric,  and  Witica,  who  each  in  turn 
ordered  fresh  locks  and  chains  to  be  added  to 
make  it  fast.  Baths  there  were  also,  and  on  the 
hills  summer  houses  and  huertas  moistened  by 
fountains  and  streams,  the  dark  Tagus  making, 
as  it  were,  a  defence  and  barrier  about  the  walls. 

One  plaisance  there  was,  particularly  noted,  on 
a  terrace  overhanging  the  river,  where  the  spires 
and    domes    of   many-painted    pavilions    uprose, 


60  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

with  tile-paved  patios,  and  arcades  and  mir adores 
open  to  the  sky,  which  Roderich  had  formed  for 
Egilona,  from  the  pattern  of  a  Moorish  retreat  she 
loved  at  Algiers.  Here  soft  fluffy  plane-trees 
whispered  to  the  breeze,  violets  blossomed  in  low 
damp  trenches,  and  the  blue-green  fronds  of  the 
palms  cut  against  the  sky.  A  garden,  indeed, 
most  cunningly  adapted  to  intoxicate  the  senses, 
where  every  tree  and  branch  was  vocal  with 
nightingale  and  thrush,  the  soft  rhythm  of  zam- 
bras  and  flutes  thrilling  through  the  boughs  from 
invisible  orchestras;  a  place  in  itself  so  lovely  and 
so  lonely  that  life  passed  by  in  an  atmosphere  of 
delight,  akin  to  the  houri-haunted  paradise  pre- 
pared for  the  brave  Moslems  who  fall  in  battle. 
Hither  came  Egilona,  as  into  the  solitude  of  an 
Eastern  harem,  shut  out  from  the  foot  of  man. 
Even  Roderich  rarely  entered  to  disturb  her  hours 
of  innocent  delight,  surrounded  by  a  band  of  fair 
damsels,  who,  like  Florinda,  had  been  committed 
to  her  care. 

It  was  a  delicious  evening  after  a  day  of  fiery 
heat.  So  oppressive  had  been  the  sun,  that  even 
the  orange  leaves  flagged  on  their  stems  and  the 
song-birds  were  mute.  In  the  broad  plains  with- 
out, the  rarefied  air  trembled;  nothing  but  the 
sharp  note  of  the  cicala  broke  the  silence  of 
mid-day. 

Now  the  air  was  cool  in  these  leafy  gardens, 
over-hanging    the    river,     from     which     delicate 


"  [iW|tegi^'J''',,',OTI,'B!!^ 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  61 

rippling  gusts  rose  up  to  fan  the  atmosphere.  The 
dazzling  pavilions  with  open  galleries  lay  in 
shadow,  and  only  a  transient  ray  from  the  setting 
sun  lit  up  some  detail  of  lace-worked  panel  or 
gilded  pinnacle  into  a  transient  flame. 

On  a  broad  terrace,  from  which  the  roofs  of  the 
city  are  dimmed  into  vague  outlines,  a  merry  party 
of  the  queen's  maidens  emerge  from  one  of  the  gal- 
leries, amid  peals  of  that  shrill  and  joyous  laughter 
heard  only  among  the  young,  and  running  swiftly 
along  scare  the  peacocks,  who  drop  their  tails  and 
fly  into  the  covered  avenues  beyond.  Some  of  the 
maidens  ensconce  themselves  in  verdant  kiosks, 
others  wander  into  the  bamboo-thickets  to  lie  on 
flowery  banks,  or  wade  in  the  shallow  streams 
which  flow  around.  One  delicately  limbed  girl, 
oppressed  by  the  heat,  divests  herself  of  the  light 
draperies  she  wears,  and  like  a  playful  Nereid 
plunges  into  a  pool,  scattering  water  on  her 
laughing  companions. 

One  of  these  maidens,  Zora,  by  name,  who 
came  from  Barbary  with  Egilona,  is  of  a  darker 
colouring  than  the  rest.  Zora  can  sing  to  the 
cither  and  relate  stories  like  a  true  Arab  as  she  is. 
Now  a  circle  of  her  companions  gather  about  her, 
and  beg  her  to  tell  them  a  tale. 

"But  you  have  heard  all  my  stories  so  often," 
pleads  poor  Zora,  whose  little  feet  are  tingling 
with  the  desire  of  movement  after  the  confine- 
ment of  the  long  hot  day. 

"Never  mind,   you  must  invent  a  new   one, 


62  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Zora. "  A  cloud  passes  over  her  merry  face. 
"Invent  a  story!  Well,  I  will  try,"  and  after  a 
few  minutes  she  seats  herself  on  a  porcelain  bench 
under  a  clump  of  cedars,  and  begins. 

Zora's  Story 

"There  were  once  three  sisters,  I  don't  know 
where,  but  they  were  princesses.  They  had  an 
ugly  old  father  with  one  eye,  who  shut  them  up 
in  a  tower  high  in  a  wall.  They  were  never  to  go 
out,  and  had  an  old  slave  to  watch  them;  her  name 
was  Wenza,  and  there  was  a  eunuch  too,  who 
carried  a  scimitar;  but  he  does  not  matter,  for  he 
stayed  out  of  doors. 

"Now  the  tower  was  very  beautiful,  only  the 
sisters  did  not  like  it,  because  they  called  it  a 
prison.  There  was  a  patio  with  an  alabaster 
fountain,  which  kept  up  a  running  murmur  day 
and  night;  the  walls  were  wrought  in  a  coloured 
net-work  of  flowers,  and  arches  and  angles  were 
worked  beautifully  to  look  like  crystal  caves.  All 
around  were  the  sweetest  little  rooms  for  the  sisters 
to  sleep  in,  not  forgetting  Wenza,  who,  they  said, 
snored,  so  she  was  put  in  the  farthest  one.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  golden  tapestry,  and  the 
divans  worked  with  shells  and  stones.  So  beauti- 
ful! Like  a  casket!  There  were  curtains  with 
monsters  and  beasts  embroidered  in  fine  silk,  hung 
at  the  doors  to  keep  out  draughts,  and  so  many 
singing-birds   in   golden    cages,    that   there   were 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  63 

times  when  they  could  not  hear  themselves  speak. 
A  little  kitchen,  too,  lay  in  a  corner,  where  Wenza 
cooked  the  food,  but  the  sisters  lived  on  cakes 
and  fruit  quite  in  a  fairy-like  way,  which  often 
made  Wenza  say  she  knew  she  would  be  starved, 
only  the  eunuch  was  kind  and  sometimes  handed 
in  on  his  scimitar  a  piece  of  meat.  High  up  in 
the  walls  were  barred  casemates,  but  oh!  so  small, 
mere  slits  and  the  princesses  often  tore  their  robes 
clambering  up  to  look  out.  They  could  see  the 
sky — a  passing  cloud  was  a  variety,  but  what 
delighted  them  most,  and, indeed,  occupied  the  day, 
when  they  were  not  playing  on  lutes  and  cithers, 
or  teaching  tricks  to  the  birds,  was  a  rocky  valley, 
oh!  so  deep  down!  They  could  just  see  it.  The 
sun  never  shone  there,  and  the  rocks  looked  always 
damp.  A  valley,  and  a  stream  with  a  strange 
echo  like  voices,  only  what  it  said  was  past  their 
power  to  know;  and  Wenza  could  not  help  them, 
she  only  pulled  them  down  from  the  windows  and 
scolded  them,  and  threatened  she  would  call  in  the 
eunuch  with  his  drawn  sword.  But  Wenza  liked 
to  hear  about  it  all  the  same,  and  asked  often  if 
the  voices  of  the  stream  had  spoken  more  plainly. 

"The  only  one  who  minded  what  Wenza  said 
was  the  youngest  princess,  Zeda.  She  was  much 
more  timid  than  her  sisters,  with  cheeks  as  white 
as  a  lily.  She  could  touch  the  stops  of  a  silver 
lute  and  sing  Moorish  ballads.  She  was  so  gentle  ; 
she  would  nurse  a  sick  bird  in  her  warm  hand  for 
hours  and  hours,  and  feed  the  little  starlings  that 


64  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

settled  on  the  window  edge.  All  day  she  was  in 
and  out  about  the  flowers,  which  stood  in  pots 
round  the  fountain  and  lived  on  the  spray. 

"Zoda,  the  second,  was  very  vain,  and  looked  at 
herself  in  a  steel  mirror  twenty  times  a  day,  paint- 
ing her  eyes  and  trimming  her  hair,  and  Lindaxara, 
the  eldest,  was  proud,  and  would  sometimes  beat 
poor  gentle  Zeda  when  she  offended  her." 

"And  their  clothes?"  asked  a  little  Gothic 
maiden  interrupting  her,  "you  have  told  us 
nothing  of  their  clothes." 

"Ah!  that  is  true,"  and  Zora  paused  and 
thought  a  little.  ' '  Well !  they  were  all  in  tunics  of 
white  satin  with  gemmed  waistbands  and  borders, 
and  trousers  of  Broussa  gauze,  lined  with  rose 
colour,  little  caps  upon  their  heads  twinkling  with 
coins,  and  necklaces  of  pearl.  Very  lovely  clothes, 
I  assure  you,  and  they  looked  lovely,  too,  standing 
with  the  spray  of  the  fountain  behind  them. 

"Well,"  continued  Zora,  growing  eager  herself 
as  her  tale  went  on,  and  the  eyes  of  all  her  com- 
panions riveted  on  her,  "you  may  fancy  what  it 
was,  when  Lindaxara,  who  was  tall  and  slim, 
clamoured  up  one  day  to  the  latticed  window  and 
saw  three  Christian  knights  working  among  the 
stones  in  the  valley  below.  She  was  so  astonished 
that  she  gave  a  loud  scream,  which  brought  her 
sisters  and  Wenza,  to  the  window.  So  there  was 
no  secret  about  it,  and  they  all  strained  their  necks 
as  far  as  the  bars  would  let  them. 

"Just  to  think  of  it!     Three  adorable  knights 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  65 

in  the  flower  of  youth.  Eyes  full  of  love,  and  the 
sweetest  heads  of  hair,  not  cut  and  trimmed  like 
the  Arabs'  under  big  turbans,  but  hanging  loose  in 
curls  upon  their  shoulders.  Captives,  alas !  loaded 
with  chains !  The  tears  came  into  the  sisters'  eyes 
as  they  gazed.  '  The  one  in  green, '  cried  Lind- 
axara,  thrilling  all  over  as  she  leaned  out  of  the  bars, 
'he  is  my  knight.     What  grace!     What  beauty! ' 

"  'No,  the  crimson  one  for  me,'  said  Zoda, 
arranging  her  hair.  'I  love  him  already.  He  shall 
never  be  a  slave.' 

"Gentle  little  Zeda  said  nothing,  but  heaved  a 
great  sigh.  'No  one  will  ever  care  for  me,'  she 
whispered,  '  but  it  is  that  other  one  I  like  best. 
He  has  such  a  heavenly  smile.' 

"After  which,  Wenza,  suddenly  remembering 
her  duty,  drove  them  all  down,  and  shut  up  the 
window.  But  too  late,  the  harm  was  done ;  Wenza 
protested,  but  she  was  the  worst  of  all.  The 
eunuch  was  bribed  by  her  with  so  much  gold,  he 
put  up  his  scimitar,  and  did  all  that  he  was  bid. 

"The  Christian  knights  were  told  that  three 
beautiful  princesses,  daughters  of  the  one-eyed 
king,  loved  them.  It  made  them  very  happy  in 
spite  of  their  chains.  They  managed  to  talk  to- 
gether by  signs  and  to  arrange  their  plans. 

"One  night,  when  the  moon  was  sinking,  and  all 
was  still,  a  whistle,  heard  from  below,  struck  on 
impatient  ears.  The  bars  had  been  sawn  from  the 
window  by  the  eunuch,  who  was  strong,  and 
Wenza  had  cut  the  sheets  into  strips  and  tied  them 
s 


66  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

all  together  into  a  long  rope ;  then  one  by  one  they 
went  down,  at  first  trembling,  but  quite  brave  and 
glad  at  last,  as  they  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  Christ- 
ian knights,  Wenza  into  the  arms  of  the  eunuch, 
who  took  care  of  her — all  save  poor  little  Zeda. 

"When  it  came  to  her  turn  to  descend,  she  had 
no  courage  to  move,  but  stood  at  the  window 
clasping  her  hands,  and  casting  down  wistful 
glances  on  her  sisters.  Now  her  fingers  were  on 
the  cord,  then  she  withdrew  them;  she  saw  her 
Christian  knight  beckoning  to  her;  listened, 
listened  as  the  stream  called  Zeda.  Again  she 
grasped  the  cord.     In  vain,  her  heart  failed  her. 

"  'Too  late,  too  late,  dear  sisters,'  she  cried. 
'Go  forth  and  be  happy.  Think  sometimes  of 
the  poor  little  prisoner  left  behind.'  And  so," 
concluded  Zora,  evidently  at  a  loss  how  to  finish 
her  tale,  "Ansa,  the  one-eyed  king,  her  father, 
coming  to  visit  his  daughters,  found  her  alone,  and 
condemned  her  to  die  of  hunger  in  the  tower. 

"Poor  little  Zeda!  But  she  still  lives  in  the 
spirit  of  the  fountain,  when  it  boils  and  bubbles 
at  night  in  the  form  of  a  Moslem  princess,  flower- 
crowned,  singing  to  a  silver  lute,  'Ay  de  mi 
Zeda!'  " 

A  great  clapping  of  hands,  and  many  thanks  to 
Zora  for  the  story,  greeted  its  conclusion.  The 
little  Gothic  maiden,  who  was  very  fond  of  Zora, 
cried  at  the  fate  of  the  poor  princess  starved  to 
death.     She  is  sure  none  of  them  were  comelier 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  67 

than  Zora;  and  in  this  she  speaks  truly  An 
African  sun  had  dyed  her  skin  to  a  ruddier  colour, 
given  symmetry  to  her  limbs,  and  a  dark  fire  to 
her  eyes.  As  a  stranger  Zora  is  by  turns  laughed 
at  and  petted.  And  as  the  setting  sun  now  catches 
the  swarthy  ebony  of  her  long  hair,  and  blazes 
on  the  rich  brown  of  her  cheek,  the  difference  be- 
tween her  and  the  rest  suddenly  strikes  a  lively 
little  playmate,  who  is  forming  a  pattern  on  the 
ground  from  the  coloured  petals  of  roses. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  says  she,  contemplat- 
ing Zora,  "which  is  prettier,  dark  Zora  with  the 
flashing  eyes,  or  pale  Florinda  with  the  chestnut 
curls.  In  my  opinion  Zora  is  worth  a  whole  bevy 
of  us  white-faced  Goths." 

"No,  no,  no,"  echoes  from  all  sides,  while  poor 
Zora,  put  to  shame,  blushes  under  tawny  skin  and 
retreats  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  garden. 

"I  will  not  give  the  palm  of  beauty  to  Zora," 
cries  another  voice,  "but  to  Florinda.  Where  is 
she?"  A  general  search  is  made  for  a  long  time  in 
vain,  but  at  last  she  is  discovered  fast  asleep  under 
a  palm.  Slumber  has  lent  a  lustre  to  her  cheek, 
and  her  white  bosom  rises  and  falls  under  the 
transparent  tissue  of  her  bodice. 

"Look!"  cry  the  maidens  exultingly,  "can 
you  compare  Zora  with  Florinda?"  And  in  their 
eagerness  the  giddy  group  tear  asunder  the  shelter- 
ing draperies  which  cling  about  her. 

Alas!  little  did  they  know,  these  joyous  maidens, 
that  the  fate  of  the  Gothic  kingdom  turned  on  the 


68  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

balance  of  their  childish  games,  and  that,  mere 
puppets  in  the  hands  of  fate,  they  were  destined  to 
be  the  instruments  of  destruction  to  their  country ! 

In  the  gloom  that  precedes  the  setting  of  the 
sun,  amid  the  dusky  shadows  of  huge-leaved  plants 
and  myrtle  hedges  which  broke  the  space  into 
squares  in  every  direction,  Don  Roderich  had 
stolen  from  the  Alcazar  to  enjoy  the  evening 
freshness  and  to  visit  the  queen.  Hearing  from 
afar  the  bursts  of  girlish  laughter,  at  the  contest 
of  beauty  between  dark  and  fair,  he  looked  out 
from  the  latticed  mirador  of  the  pavilion,  and  be- 
held the  undraped  form  of  Florinda  before  she 
could  escape  from  the  hands  of  her  companions. 

That  glance  is  fatal.  Forgetful  of  the  sacred 
pledges  given  to  her  father,  forgetful  of  his  honour 
as  a  knight  and  his  gratitude  as  a  king,  a  mighty 
passion  rises  within  his  breast.  But  Florinda 
gives  no  response ;  his  fervid  glances  are  met  with 
downcast  eyes,  and  a  blush  rises  on  her  cheek  as  she 
involuntarily  approaches  him.  This  does  but  serve 
to  fan  his  lawless  love ;  and  so  great  is  his  infatua- 
tion he  cannot  persuade  himself  that  she  does 
not  return  it.  His  whole  soul  is  as  a  furnace, 
which  consumes  his  life.  Speak  to  her  he  must, 
and  a  wicked  hope  whispers  it  will  not  be  in  vain ! 

Meeting  her  one  day,  a  little  later,  by  chance  in 
the  queen's  antechamber,  he  called  her  to  him, 
and  presented  to  her  his  hand. 

"Sweet  one,"  says  he,  in  a  voice  he  can 
scarcely  command,  every  pulse  within  him  beat- 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  69 

ing  tumultuously,  "a  thorn  has  sorely  pricked 
me,  can  you  draw  it  out?" 

Florinda,  who  unconsciously  has  come  rather  to 
fear  him,  kneels  at  his  feet  and  takes  his  hand  in 
hers.  At  the  touch  of  her  light  fingers  a  tremor 
runs  through  his  frame.  Is  this  slight  girl  to 
resist  the  transports  that  shake  his  being  to  the 
core,  as  the  fury  of  the  tempest  shakes  the  light 
leaves? 

As  she  kneels  the  tresses  of  her  auburn  hair  fall 
as  a  veil  around  her,  and  blush  after  blush  flushes 
her  cheeks.  Vainly  she  seeks  for  the  thorn  in  Don 
Roderich's  hand.  In  her  surprise  she  lifts  her  eyes 
to  his,  which  are  bent  on  her  with  ill-controlled 
passion;  then,  starting  to  her  feet  in  confusion, 
"My  lord,"  she  says,  retreating  from  where  he 
stands  leaning  against  a  painted  pillar,  his  jewelled 
cap  pressed  down  upon  his  brows,  "there  is  no 
thorn." 

She  turns  to  go,  filled  with  an  apprehension  she 
cannot  explain,  but  he  catches  her  hand,  and 
presses  it  to  his  heart. 

"Here,  here  is  the  thorn,  Florinda;  will  you 
pluck  that  out?" 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  cries  the  alarmed  girl, 
"I  do  not  catch  your  meaning." 

"Then  I  will  teach  you, "  he  answers,  fast  losing 
command  over  himself.  "  Do  you  love  me?"  and 
he  draws  her  to  him  so  near  that  his  quick-coming 
breath  plays  upon  her  cheek. 

Ever  farther  and  farther  she  strives  to  retreat; 


70  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

ever  nearer  and  nearer  Don  Roderich  presses  her, 
his  glowing  eyes  resting  on  her  like  flames. 

"My  lord,"  she  says  at  last,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  "my  father  told  me  to  revere  you  as 
himself.  I  was  to  be  to  you  and  to  the  queen  as  a 
daughter.  To  your  protection  I  look,  may  it 
never  fail. " 

A  terrible  fear  possessed  her  of  coming  danger, 
as  she  shaped  her  words  to  this  appeal,  and  had  a 
spark  of  loyalty  remained  in  the  heart  of  Don 
Roderich,  her  reproof  would  have  brought  him  to  a 
better  mind,  but  an  evil  destiny  had  doomed  him 
to  work  out  his  own  ruin. 

"Florinda, "  he  cries,  seizing  her  by  both  hands 
so  as  to  draw  her  to  him  by  force,  "innocent  as 
you  are,  you  must  understand  me.  It  is  not  the 
love  for  a  father  nor  the  submission  to  a  king  I  ask 
of  you.  It  is  love.  Ah!  tremble  not,  fair  one, 
there  is  nothing  to  scare  you.  None  shall  know  it. 
Deep  in  our  hearts  it  shall  lie.  Nor  does  the  love 
of  your  king  degrade  you  like  that  of  a  common 
man.  All  the  power  of  the  Gothic  throne  shall 
compass  you  with  delights,  and  I  will  make  your 
father  Julian  greater  than  myself." 

At  these  base  words  the  rising  terror  of  Florinda 
gave  place  to  indignation.  Her  soft  eyes  kindled 
with  a  fire  far  different  from  that  which  Don 
Roderich  would  have  desired. 

"I  understand,  my  lord,"  she  answers,  in  a 
firm  voice;  "but  none  of  my  race  hold  power  by 
evil  means.     My  father  would  rather  die  than 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  71 

accept  such  dishonour.  But, "  and  an  ill-assured 
smile  plays  about  her  mouth,  "I  believe  you 
mean  but  to  try  me ;  you  think  me  too  stupid  and 
childish  to  serve  the  queen.  I  pray  your  pardon 
for  taking  a  jest  in  such  foolish  earnest." 

The  blanched  face  of  Florinda  ill-corresponded 
with  the  words  which  her  quivering  lips  could 
scarcely  articulate. 

"May  I  die,"  cries  Don  Roderich,  "if  I  speak 
aught  but  truth.  My  heart,  my  kingdom,  are 
at  your  command.  Be  mine,  fair  angel,  and  the 
Goths  shall  know  no  rule  but  yours." 

But  now,  the  courage  of  Florinda,  timid  and 
girlish  as  she  was,  rises  up  within  her.  "My 
lord,  I  am  in  your  power, "  are  her  words.  "You 
may  kill  me,  but  there  you  stop.  My  will  you  can 
never  force.  "  Then,  casting  up  her  arms  with  a 
gesture  of  despair,  she  flees,  vanishing  among  the 
long  lines  of  pillars  in  the  hall;  and  such  was 
the  power  of  her  anger  that  the  king  dares  not 
follow  her.  And  here  we  must  leave  her  with  a 
wonder  whether  the  assiduous  worship  paid  her  by 
Roderich  was  always  repulsed  with  a  like  vigour,  or 
if  the  opprobrious  name  of  La  Cava  with  which 
she  came  to  be  branded  in  the  legends  of  the  time 
was  not  undeserved. 

That  the  king  was  so  depraved  by  the  indulgence 
of  his  life  as  not  to  be  haunted  by  the  shame  of 
what  he  had  done  is  difficult  to  believe.  That  he 
counted,  however,  on  the  secrecy  of  Florinda  would 
seem  certain  from  the  indifference  he  displayed 


72  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

to  the  consequences  of  his  action  as  affecting  his 
relations  with  Julian,  at  that  very  time  leading 
his  army  against  the  Moorish  hosts,  commanded 
by  the  veteran  general,  Mousa,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Ceuta. 

"Those  whom  the  gods  forsake,  they  blind," 
says  the  Pagan  proverb.  It  is  certainly  impossible 
to  explain  the  inactivity  of  the  once  valiant  Rode- 
rich  by  any  rational  course  of  reasoning.  Not 
only  had  the  rumour  of  approaching  battle  come 
from  the  African  shores,  but  swift  messengers  had 
brought  to  Toledo  the  news  that  the  rock  of  Calpe 
(Gibraltar)  in  Spain  bristled  with  scimitars,  led 
by  the  ferocious  old  Berber,  Tharyk,  with  his 
single  eye. 

"Tell  Roderich  the  Goth,"  ran  the  message, 
"that  Tharyk  has  crossed  the  Straits  to  conquer 
his  kingdom,  and  that  he  will  not  return  until  he 
has  made  the  Goth  lick  the  dust  before  him. " 

Whatever  blindness  had  fallen  on  Roderich,  the 
consciousness  of  her  disgrace  soon  forced  itself  on 
the  mind  of  Florinda.  Guilty  or  not,  despair  at 
last  took  possession  of  her.  For  a  time  she  was 
silent,  but  unable  to  endure  her  shame,  and  horri- 
fied at  her  treason  towards  the  queen,  who  ever 
tenderly  cherished  her,  in  a  paroxysm  of  remorse- 
ful grief  she  caught  up  a  pen  and  wrote  to  Julian: 

"Would  to  God,  my  father,  that  the  earth  had 
swallowed  me  ere  I  came  to  Toledo!  What  am  I 
to  tell  you  of  that  which  it  is  meet  to  conceal? 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  73 

Alas!  my  father,  your  lamb  has  been  entrusted  to 
the  wolf.  She  were  better  dead  than  dishonoured. 
Hasten  to  rescue  your  unhappy  Florinda.  Come 
quickly." 

Tying  this  brief  missive  in  a  square  of  silk,  and 
fastening  it  with  a  ribbon,  she  called  to  her  a 
young  page,  bred  at  her  father's  court,  who  had 
been  especially  appointed  to  her  service. 

"Adolfo, "  said  she,  and  sobs  were  in  her  voice, 
"saddle  the  swiftest  steed  you  can  lay  hands  on, 
and  if  ever,  dear  nino,  you  aspire  to  the  honours 
of  a  belted  knight  in  the  service  of  my  father,  or 
hope  for  lady's  grace  in  the  tourney;  if  ever—" 
here  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  moved  by  her 
own  vehemence.  "Oh,  sweet  Adolfo,  dear  little 
page,  reared  up  in  my  home,  for  the  love  of  Christ, 
ride  day  and  night  until  you  reach  the  sea.  Then, 
at  the  price  of  gold,  which  I  give  you, "  and  she 
placed  in  his  hands  a  heavy  purse,  "take  the  best 
boat  and  the  swiftest  rowers,  and  with  flowing  sail 
speed  to  my  father  at  Ceuta,  nor  eat  nor  drink  until 
you  have  placed  this  writing  in  his  hand. " 

Before  the  eager  Florinda,  whose  every 
feature  spoke  the  deadly  anxiety  she  felt,  the 
page,  cap  in  hand,  bowed  low. 

"Trust  me,  noble  daughter  of  my  honoured 
lord.  I  will  truly  execute  your  trust.  Swiftly 
will  I  ride,  nor  turn  aside  for  aught  but  death, 
either  by  land  or  sea. ' ' 

Placing  the  letter  in  the  bosom  of  his  gaudy  vest, 
he  kissed  her  hand  and  sped  his  way,  mounted  a 


74  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

fast  horse  he  found  in  the  patio  of  the  Palace,  gal- 
loped down  the  declivity,  through  the  Golden  Gate, 
and  so  on  into  the  eternal  plains  which  gird  about 
Toledo,  until  clouds  of  dust  concealed  him  from 
Florinda's  anxious  gaze. 

Meanwhile,  Julian,  fighting  valiantly  in  Africa, 
had  just  repulsed  an  attack  of  Mousa  on  the  castle 
of  Ceuta,  standing  on  a  cape  which  juts  out  into 
the  Straits,  the  nearest  point  to  the  Spanish  main- 
land. It  was  a  desperate  struggle;  the  Moors, 
under  the  command  of  the  famous  Arabs,  rallying 
again  and  again. 

The  news  of  such  a  success  spread  round  not 
only  in  Africa  but  over  all  the  breadth  of  Spain. 
The  landing  of  the  Moors  in  Andalusia  was  a  con- 
stant subject  of  terror  on  the  mainland.  Men 
knew  that  the  Gothic  nation  no  longer  held  to- 
gether as  under  the  early  kings,  and  that  each 
chief  looked  to  himself  alone,  caring  but  little 
what  became  of  his  neighbours.  The  castles  were 
dismantled  by  the  selfish  policy  of  Witica  and 
Roderich,  and  the  army  was  sunk  into  the  same 
luxurious  ease  as  the  rest  of  the  nation. 

The  name  of  Julian  was  soon  on  every  lip.  He 
was  hailed  as  a  saviour,  and  blessings  invoked  on 
him  as  the  bulwark  of  the  Cross. 

With  the  sound  of  this  homage  ringing  in  his 
ears,  the  page  arrives  at  Ceuta,  bearing  the  letter 
from  Florinda.  Julian  at  once  summons  him  to 
his  tent,  as  perchance  the  bearer  of  some  signal 


THE    GATE    OF   THE    MOSQUE    OF    CORDOVA. 


DON  RODERICH'S  PERFIDY  75 

honour  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  king,  or  of 
some  royal  recompense  for  his  services. 

"What  tidings  from  Don  Roderich?  "  he  asks. 

"None,  my  lord,"  is  the  answer.  "I  rode  in 
haste  away,  without  seeing  the  king.  What  I  bear 
is  a  letter  from  the  Lady  Florinda. " 

"Florinda — how  fares  she?" 

"Well,  my  lord,"  answers  the  page,  as  he  takes 
the  silken  packet  from  his  bosom. 

Cutting  the  ribbon  that  binds  it  with  his  dagger, 
Julian  reads  the  miserable  lines;  word  after  word 
brings  a  terrible  certainty  to  his  mind;  he  stands 
in  speechless  anguish,  then,  flinging  the  parch- 
ment from  him,  he  folds  his  arms,  while  one  by  one 
the  burning  remembrance  of  each  act  of  devotion 
to  Roderich  stings  him  to  the  soul.  It  is  a  terrible 
reckoning;  a  dark  and  malignant  fury  enters  into 
his  soul,  not  only  against  Roderich,  but  against  all 
Spain,  the  scene  of  his  dishonour,  the  home  of  his 
disgrace. 

"And  this,"  cries  he,  when  words  come  to  his 
lips,  "is  my  reward  for  serving  a  villain!  This  is 
the  return  he  makes  me  for  the  hostage  of  my 
child !  May  I  die  a  slave  if  I  rest  until  I  have  given 
him  full  measure  in  return!" 


CHAPTER  IV 


Don  Julian  Goes  over  to  tKe  Moors 


ULIAN'S  first  object  is,  without 
exciting  suspicion,  to  remove  his 
daughter  from  Toledo.  Full  of 
the  project  of  revenge,  he  crosses 
and  repairs  to  the  Court.  Wher- 
he  is  hailed  as   the  leader  to 

Rode- 


the   Straits 
ever  he  appears 

whose  prowess  the  nation  owes  its  safety. 
rich,  counting  on  the  silence  of  Florinda,  receives 
him  with  a  frank  and  generous  welcome,  and  loads 
him  with  new  honours.  Julian,  meanwhile,  art- 
fully magnifies  the  present  danger  which  threatens 
the  frontier,  and  prepares  all  things  for  his  return 
to  Africa.  For  Florinda  he  obtains  leave  of 
absence  from  the  queen  "to  attend  upon  her 
mother  Frandina,  dangerously  ill  at  Algeciras. " 
Together  they  cross  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus, 
followed  by  the  shouting  populace,  but  as  his 
horse's  hoofs  strike  on  the  opposite  bank  he  raises 
his  mailed  hand,  and  shakes  it  in  the  air  as  he  turns 
his  eyes  towards  the  Alcazar. 

"  My  curse  rest  on  thee,  Don  Roderich! "  are  his 
words.  "May  desolation  fall  on  thy  dwelling 
and  thy  realm!" 

76 


JULIAN  GOES  OVER  TO  THE  MOORS    77 

Journeying  on  with  Florinda,  he  came  to  a  wild 
range  of  mountains  near  Consucara — still  called 
the  Mountain  of  Treason — where  he  meets  his 
kinsman,  Archbishop  Opas,  and  his  wife  Frandina, 
a  formidable  amazon,  who  not  only  followed  her 
lord  in  battle,  but  concentrated  in  herself  all  the 
duplicity  of  her  brother. 

She  had  long  hated  Roderich  for  his  marriage 
with  Egilona,  now  she  could  revenge  herself. 

"  I  would  rather  die, "  she  exclaims,  as  she  gazed 
at  Florinda,  prostrate  at  her  feet,  "than  submit 
to  this  outrage!" 

"Be  satisfied,"  replies  Don  Julian;  "she  shall 
be  avenged.  Opas  will  bind  our  friends  by  dread- 
ful oaths.  I  myself  will  go  to  Africa  to  seek  great 
Mousa,  and  negotiate  his  aid. " 

From  Malaga  Julian  embarked  for  Africa  with 
Frandina  and  Florinda,  his  treasure  and  his  house- 
hold, and  ever  since  the  gate  in  the  city  wall 
through  which  they  passed  has  been  called  Puerta  de 
la  Cava  (Gate  of  the  Harlot) ,  by  which  name  the 
unhappy  Florinda  was  known  among  the  Moors. 

The  dark  tents  of  the  Moslems  were  spread  in  a 
pastoral  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  billowy  chain  of 
hills  which  follow  along  the  north  of  Barbary  (as 
it  was  called  of  old),  outshoots  from  the  great  Atlas 
range  which  towers  in  the  far  distance.  A  motley 
host  from  Egypt  and  Mauretania — Saracens,  Tar- 
tars, Syrians,  Copts,  and  Berbers, — all,  Christian 
or  Moslem,  fair-skinned  or  negro,  united  under  the 


78  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

banner  of  Mousa,  Governor  of  North  Africa  for  the 
Caliph  of  Damascus,  a  man  long  past  middle  life, 
but  who  concealed  his  years  cunningly. 

As  Mousa  sits  to  administer  justice  among  the 
mixed  tribes  of  his  host,  raised  on  a  divan  covered 
with  sheep-skins,  under  a  wide-spreading  oak, 
near  which  a  rapid  streamlet  runs  down  into  the 
sea,  the  flag  of  Islam  floating  beside  him,  Tharyk, 
his  lieutenant,  on  his  right  hand,  a  bugle  sounds 
from  above  among  the  hills,  and  the  gay  apparel 
of  a  herald  appears  in  the  distance,  attended  by  a 
single  trumpeter.  Cautiously  descending  the  steep 
path  among  a  forest-like  grove,  the  herald,  bearing 
on  his  tabard  the  Gothic  arms,  pauses  at  the  base ; 
the  trumpeter  sounds  another  loud  blast,  then  both 
ride  boldly  into  the  circle  gathered  round  Mousa. 
After  an  obeisance,  responded  to  in  silence  by  the 
astonished  Moors,  he  speaks,  lowering  his  cog- 
nisance before  the  chief:  "I  demand,"  says  he, 
"a  safe  passage  for  my  master,  Don  Julian  Espa- 
torios  of  Spain,  under  King  Roderich  the  Goth. 
Can  he  come  without  danger  to  life  and  limb  and 
depart  when  he  lists?" 

To  which  Mousa,  touching  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  the  folds  of  the  green  turban  which  he  wears, 
then  carrying  them  down  and  crossing  them  on  his 
chest,  in  an  Eastern  salute  of  ceremony  replies: 

"The  demand  of  Don  Julian  is  granted.  Let 
my  noble  adversary  advance  without  fear.  So 
brave  a  leader  shall  eat  of  our  salt  were  he  ten 
times  our  foe." 


JULIAN  GOES  OVER  TO  THE  MOORS    79 

Clad  in  a  complete  suit  of  armour,  and  mounted 
on  a  powerful  charger,  Julian  appears.  A  sur- 
coat  of  black  is  over  his  armour,  his  legs  are  en- 
cased in  fluted  steel,  and  on  his  helmet  rests  a 
sable  plume.  Behind  him  rides  his  esquire,  bear- 
ing his  lance  and  shield.  With  grave  courtesy- 
he  salutes  the  Moslem  chiefs  whom  he  has  so  lately 
defeated,  then,  upon  the  motion  of  Mousa,  who 
rises  at  his  approach,  he  dismounts,  and,  flinging 
the  bridle  to  his  esquire,  takes  the  place  assigned 
to  him. 

The  deep-set  eyes  of  Julian,  for  he  wears  his 
vizor  raised,  are  fixed  on  the  face  of  Mousa,  who 
with  the  refinement  of  Eastern  courtesy,  affects  to 
smile,  although  much  exercised  in  his  mind  as  to 
what  motive  can  have  induced  his  adversary  thus 
voluntarily  to  place  himself  in  his  power.  His 
lieutenant  Tharyk,  a  rough  warrior,  gifted  with 
little  command  over  his  countenance,  glares  at 
him  meanwhile  out  of  his  single  eye  with  uncon- 
cealed hatred. 

An  awkward  pause  follows,  broken  only  by  the 
low  ripple  of  the  brook,  carolling  swiftly  over  the 
glancing  pebbles,  which  separates  Julian  from 
Mousa,  thus  as  it  were  symbolising  the  position 
of  the  late  combatants  by  its  slender  barrier. 
At  last  Julian  speaks:  ''Hitherto,  O  Emir  of  the 
Faithful,  we  have  met  as  enemies.  Now  I  am 
come  to  offer  you  my  country  and  my  king. 
Country,"  he  repeats  bitterly,  as  a  dark  frown 
overshadows   his   face,    pale    under    his    helmet, 


80  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"I  have  none;  Roderich  the  Goth  is  my  deadliest 
enemy.  He  has  blasted  the  honour  of  my  name. 
Aid  me,  0  Mousa,  to  revenge,  and  all  Spain  is 
in  your  hand." 

Not  even  the  grave  immobility  of  countenance 
in  which  the  Moslem  is  trained  to  conceal  his 
emotions  could  altogether  prevent  the  movement 
of  amazement  with  which  this  speech  was  re- 
ceived by  Mousa  and  Tharyk  and  those  around. 
What  motive,  however,  was  powerful  enough  to 
cause  Julian  thus  to  present  himself  in  the  face  of 
the  assembled  chiefs  of  Islam  mattered  not  to 
Mousa.  Julian  had  spoken,  and  his  heart  leaped 
within  him  at  the  words.  How  often  had  he 
gazed  on  the  low  hills  along  the  Spanish  coast 
washed  by  the  Straits !  How  often  had  he  longed 
to  possess  himself  of  the  fair  plains  lying  beyond: 
a  land  rich  with  rivers  and  pastures,  vines,  olives, 
and  pomegranates,  splendid  cities  and  castles, 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey — and  now  it  was  his 
own!  But,  wary  by  nature,  and  cautious  by  age, 
the  henna-stained  warrior  (for  it  was  said  of 
Mousa  that,  to  retain  his  youthful  appearance,  he 
dyed  his  hair  and  beard)  pauses  ere  he  replies, 
and  turns  towards  the  sheikhs  who  sit  around: 

"Don  Julian,"  says  he,  affecting  to  knit  his 
bushy  eyebrows,  "comes  here  as  a  traitor.  The 
same  treason  may  be  hidden  in  his  word  that  he 
shows  to  his  own  master.  But  lately  he  held  the 
garrisons  of  the  Goths  against  us  in  the  stronghold 
of  Ceuta,  and  prevailed.     The  faithful  were  driven 


JULIAN  GOES  OVER  TO  THE  MOORS    81 

out,  and  the  Arab  camp  broken.  How  can  we 
credit  him?  The  Koran  teaches  that  those  who 
deceive  an  enemy  are  blessed. " 

"Ceuta!"  shouts  Julian,  "yes,  0  Mousa,  you 
have  said  well.  It  is  true  I  drove  your  Moslems 
from  the  field  like  sheep  before  the  wolves.  Yes ! " 
(and  even  as  he  speaks  his  voice  grows  loud  and 
fierce)  "on  every  side  I  was  hailed  as  a  deliverer, 
and  my  heart  swelled  within  me  as  I  thought  upon 
the  victory  I  had  won.  Then,  in  the  moment 
when  the  shouts  of  the  Goths  were  echoing  in  my 
ears,  and  Roderich  made  of  me  almost  a  king,  a 
letter  came  to  my  hand."  Here  all  expression 
died  out  of  his  face,  his  powerful  frame  seemed  to 
stiffen  into  stone,  but  from  out  of  the  upraised  bars 
of  his  helmet  a  menacing  fire  shone  in  his  eyes, 
which  belied  the  seeming  calm  of  his  demeanour. 
His  gaze  was  fixed  on  Mousa,  not  as  though  he 
perceived  him,  but  rather  as  if  the  eyes  of  his 
mind  were  ranging  far  away  among  the  scenes 
which  had  brought  him  to  this  pass. 

"Explain,  noble  Goth,"  replies  Mousa,  "else 
is  your  coming  vain. " 

Recalled  to  himself  by  the  Emir's  voice, 
Julian  proceeded;  but  he  visibly  faltered  as  the 
words  came  slowly  to  his  lips.  "The  dishonour 
of  my  house  is  my  reward.  My  name  is 
blasted  while  Roderich  lives.  For  this  purpose 
am  I  come." 

"This  is  a  wild  tale,"  answers  Mousa,  crossing 
his  arms  within  the  draperies  of  his  robe.     "Your 


82  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

own  words  proclaim  you  a  traitor.  You  may  be 
true.     If  false,  Allah  judge  you ! " 

Then  it  was  that  Tharyk-el-Tuerto  rose  and 
stood  forth  from  among  the  sheikhs,  his  one  eye 
gleaming  with  a  savage  joy. 

"Doubt  not  the  words  of  Don  Julian,  O  Emir, " 
he  cries.  "The  wrong  which  Roderich  has  wrought 
him  would  move  the  lowest  Berber  of  the  desert 
to  revenge.  By  his  offer,  O  Emir,  a  new  land 
spreads  out  before  us,  inviting  us  to  conquest. 
What  is  to  prevent  us  from  becoming  the  in- 
heritors of  the  Goth?  Let  me  go  forth  with  Don 
Julian  and  prove  the  land. " 

The  bold  words  of  "the  one-eyed  Tharyk" 
find  favour  with  Mousa  and  the  chiefs.  "Allah 
is  great, "  is  their  answer.  "  Mahomet  the  Prophet 
speaks  by  the  mouth  of  Tharyk.  Let  it  be  as  he 
desires." 

So  Julian  and  Tharyk  departed  with  five  galleys 
and  five  hundred  men;  landed  at  Algeciras  in  the 
Bay  of  Gibraltar  (Gibel  Taric  to  this  day,  in 
memory  of  him),  and  returned  to  Africa  with 
such  tidings  of  the  power  of  Julian  to  raise  the  land, 
that  a  formidable  invasion  was  decided  on. 


rtnl 


82 

ow?  may  be 

and 
.     eye 


Interior  of  the  Great  Mosque,  Cordova. 

iryk" 

"Allah 

Prophet 

be  as  he 

the 
a  with 


MOHAMMED. 


CHAPTER  V 

Landing'  of  tKe  Moors — The  Eve  of 
Battle 

JON   RODERICH,    seated  with   the 
beauteous    Queen   Egilona    in   the 
royal    castle    of    Toledo,     eagerly 
questions    a   herald    sent   forward 
by  Teodomir  from  Murcia. 

"What  tidings  from  the  south?"  he  asks. 
"Of  great  woe,"  is  the  answer.  "Already  the 
rock  of  Calpe  has  fallen.  The  noble  Teodomir 
is  wounded.  The  Gothic  troops,  0  King,  fly  be- 
fore the  Moslem.  Whether  they  come  from 
heaven  or  hell  we  know  not.  They  have  no  ships, 
yet  they  overrun  the  coast.  Send  us  aid  with 
speed." 

At  this  dismal  news  Roderich  turned  to  the 
wall  and  covered  his  face  with  his  robe.  Changed 
as  he  was  from  the  valorous  young  hero  of  earlier 
days,  enervated  and  sensual,  the  blood  of  brave 
warriors  flowed  in  his  veins,  and  shame  and  re- 
morse overwhelmed  him.  Not  one  word  could 
Egilona  draw  from  him.  To  the  pressure  of  her 
soft  arms  he  did  not  respond ;  nor  did  he  heed  the 
kisses  she  showered  on  him,  as,  parting  the  long 

83 


84  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


meshes  of  his  flowing  locks,  she  strove  to  uncover 
his  face. 

Around,  the  courtiers  stand  mute,  each  man  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth.  An  awful  silence 
follows,  broken  only  by  the  sobs  of  the  queen,  as 
messenger  after  messenger  rides  in,  distracting  the 
city  with  fresh  tales  of  woe.  So  easy  had  the 
treachery  of  Julian  made  conquest  for  the  Moors, 
that  already  the  coast  of  Andalusia  bristled  with 
scimitars,  and  bands  of  turbaned  horsemen  had 
overrun  the  plains  to  the  banks  of  the  Guadalete. 

What  were  Roderich's  thoughts  as  he  sat 
motionless?  Did  he  recall  the  prophecy  of  his 
fall,  when,  contrary  to  the  advice  of  the  arch- 
bishop, who  implored  him  to  respect  a  mystery 
held  sacred  for  generations,  he  had  forced  his  way 
into  the  magic  Tower  of  Hercules,  planted  on  the 
cliffs  outside  Toledo,  and  in  spite  of  all  warnings 
had  broken  the  lock  of  the  enchanted  casket,  and 
unfolded  the  linen  cloths  on  which  were  painted 
miniature  figures  of  horsemen  wearing  turbans 
and  Eastern  tunics,  scimitars  at  their  sides,  and 
crossbows  at  their  saddle-bows,  carrying  pennons 
and  banners  with  crescents  and  Moorish  devices — 
all  of  which  at  first  appeared  small,  as  a  pattern 
to  be  folded  up,  then  grew  and  expanded  into  the 
size  of  life, — squadrons  of  Moorish  warriors  filling 
the  space,  as  they  moved  upwards  out  of  the  cloth, 
in  ever-lengthening  lines,  to  the  faint  sound  of 
distant  warlike  instruments;  becoming  ever  larger 
and  louder  as  the  enchantment   grew,   and   the 


LANDING  OF  THE  MOORS  85 

figures  waxing  greater  to  the  far-off  clash  of 
cymbals  and  trumpets,  the  neighing  of  war-steeds 
snorting  in  the  charge,  and  shouts  as  of  the 
approach  of  serried  hosts? 

And,  as  Don  Roderich  gazed  as  one  stupefied 
before  the  vision  he  had  audaciously  invoked, 
plainer  and  plainer  became  the  motion  of  the 
figures,  and  wilder  the  din,  as  the  linen  cloth  rolled 
itself  higher  and  higher  and  spread  and  amplified 
out  of  the  casket,  until  it  rose  into  the  dome  of  the 
hall,  its  texture  no  longer  visible,  but  moving  with 
the  air,  the  shadowy  figures  plainer  and  yet  plainer 
in  their  fierce  warfare,  and  the  din  and  uproar  more 
appalling  as  they  formed  into  the  semblance  of  a 
great  battlefield  where  Christians  and  Moors 
strove  with  each  other  in  deadly  conflict ;  the  rush 
and  tramp  of  horses  ever  clearer,  the  blast  of 
trumpet  and  clarion  shriller  and  louder,  the  clash 
of  swords  and  maces,  the  thud  of  battle-axes  strik- 
ing together,  the  whistle  of  ghostly  arrows  through 
the  air,  and  the  hurling  of  lances  and  darts — while 
phantom  drums  rumbled  as  by  thousands  with 
the  under-note  of  war;  two  battling  hosts  clearly 
discerned,  presenting  all  the  phases  of  a  desperate 
combat.  And  now,  behold  the  phantom  lines  of 
Christians  quail  before  the  infidel,  pressing  on 
them  in  shadowy  thousands,  the  standard  of  the 
Cross  is  felled,  the  Gothic  banner  fouled,  the  air 
resounds  with  shouts,  yells  of  fury,  and  groans  of 
dying  men;  and  plain  among  the  flying  hosts  is 
seen  a  mounted  form,  bearing  the  semblance  of  a 


86  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

shadowy  king — a  golden  crown  encircles  his  helmet 
— mounted  on  a  white  steed  with  blood-stained 
haunches,  the  satin-coated  Orelia  gallantly  bear- 
ing him  out  of  the  battle.  No  countenance  is 
visible,  for  his  back  is  turned,  but  in  the  fashion  of 
the  inlaid  armour,  the  jewelled  circlet,  the  device, 
and  graceful  lines  of  his  favourite  war-horse,  Don 
Roderich,  with  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  beholds 
himself  flying  across  the  plains!  Unseated  in  the 
melee  he  disappears;  and  Orelia,  without  a  rider, 
careers  wildly  on,  as  though  in  search  of  the  loved 
master,  the  touch  of  whose  hand  she  knows  so 
well! 

Roderich,  paralysed  with  horror,  sees  no  more, 
but  rushing  from  the  magic  hall,  the  rumble  of 
phantom  drums  and  trumpets  in  his  ear,  com- 
mands that  the  iron  doors  of  the  Tower  of  Hercules 
be  for  ever  closed. 

Such  was  the  warning,  but  he  heeded  not. 

On  July  26,  711,  beside  the  river  Guadalete 
(Wady  Lete),  near  Xerez,  was  fought  out  the  fate 
of  Spain.  A  dull,  dreary  region,  over  which  the 
eye  now  wanders  objectless,  save  for  a  far-off 
lying  tower,  or  a  solitary  pine  marked  against  the 
horizon;  the  scent  of  lavender  and  rosemary 
strong  in  the  wind,  like  incense  rising  up  for  the 
forgotten  dead,  whose  bones  whitened  the  plain. 

The  Moors,  under  the  command  of  Tharyk, 
"the  one-eyed,"  were  inferior  in  numbers  to  the 
Goths,  but  compacter  and  more  dexterous,   ac- 


THE  EVE  OF  BA  TTLE  87 

customed  to  constant  warfare,  and  headed  by- 
experienced  leaders.  As  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  caught  the  wide  circle  of  the  Moslem  camp 
the  evening  before  the  battle,  a  motley  crowd  of 
many  tribes  met  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  Goths : 
Berbers  from  North  Africa  in  white  turbans  and 
white  flying  bournous,  armed  with  lance  and 
wattled  shields;  roving  Bedouins  on  the  fleetest 
steeds,  their  glossy  coats  hung  with  beads  and 
charms;  Ethiopians,  black  as  night;  Nubians  with 
matted  hair,  and  men  from  Barbary  and  Tunis. 

On  landing  at  Tarif a,  near  the  rock  of  Gibraltar, 
Tharyk  had  burnt  every  ship.  "Behold,"  said 
he,  pointing  to  the  flames  which  ran  swiftly  along 
the  wood  of  the  light  African  triremes,  "there  is 
now  no  escape  for  cowards.  We  conquer,  or  we  die. 
Your  home  is  before  you, "  and  he  pointed  to  the 
low  line  of  inland  hills  which  bound  the  horizon. 
As  he  spoke,  an  ancient  woman,  covered  with  a 
woollen  sheet  gathered  about  her  naked  limbs, 
drew  near  to  where  he  was  standing  surrounded 
by  his  sheikhs,  waving  a  white  rag. 

"Great  Emir,"  quoth  she,  falling  on  the  earth 
to  kiss  his  feet  in  Eastern  fashion,  "I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  prophecy  written  by  an  ancient  seer. 
He  foretold  that  the  Moors  would  overrun  our 
country,  if  a  leader  should  appear  known  by  these 
signs:  On  his  right  shoulder  is  a  mole,  and  his 
right  arm  is  longer  than  his  left,  so  that  he  can 
cover  his  knee  with  one  hand  without  bending 
down. " 


88  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Tharyk  listened  with  grave  attention,  then  laid 
bare  his  arms.  There  was  the  mole,  and  so  much 
did  his  right  arm  exceed  the  left  in  length,  that  he 
could  clasp  his  knee  with  his  hand. 

The  Christians  had  pitched  their  tents  at  sunset, 
somewhat  distant  from  the  Moors,  whose  black 
banners,  with  mysterious  signs,  dark  tents,  and 
savage  weapons  inspired  them  with  awe.  Before 
night,  Don  Roderich  sent  out  a  picked  squadron 
of  the  Gothic  bodyguard  to  skirmish  with  the 
enemy,  with  flags  and  standards  bearing  the  same 
device  as  those  which  had  floated  before  Alaric  at 
the  walls  of  Rome.  Each  chief,  encased  in  ponder- 
ous armour,  in  singular  contrast  to  the  light- 
armed  Moors — attended  by  esquires  heavily  armed 
also,  and  bowmen  and  men-at-arms.  Old  Teodo- 
mir  led  them,  having  come  from  his  government  of 
Murcia,  with  many  another  tried  Gothic  chief; 
Ataulfo,  and  the  grey-headed  Pelistes,  heading,  with 
the  traditions  of  the  earliest  times,  his  vassals 
and  retainers.  With  him  was  his  young  son,  who 
had  never  borne  arms  but  in  the  lists  of  the  tour- 
ney. The  young  Pelayo  had  craved  to  be  present, 
to  flesh  his  maiden  sword  against  the  enemy,  but 
the  jealousy  of  Roderich,  who  hated  all  those  of 
the  old  race,  had  forbidden  it;  an  affront  that  so 
rankled  in  his  soul  that  he  swore  what  seemed  then 
a  foolish  oath,  but  which  time  ratified — to  lead 
his  countrymen  or  to  die. 

To  this  goodly  array  of  Christian  knights  the 
Moors  were  not  slow  to  correspond.     Ranks  of 


THE  EVE  OF  BATTLE  89 

fleet  horsemen  rode  out  in  the  failing  light,  under 
the  command  of  Julian  (ever  to  the  fore  where  the 
fighting  was  hottest),  sacrificing  many  a  gallant 
life  in  empty  skirmishing,  all  by  the  advice  of  the 
Archbishop  Opas,  whose  tent  lay  near  to  Rode- 
rich,  while  he  secretly  guided  the  Moors. 

Old  Tharyk,  astonished  by  this  prompt  display 
of  the  valour  of  the  Goths,  and  their  devotion  to 
their  king,  sought  out  Julian,  sternly  remonstrat- 
ing: 

"You  told  me  your  countrymen  were  sunk  in 
sloth  and  effeminacy  under  a  dastard  king.  But 
behold,  I  see  their  tents  whitening  the  plains 
and  his  army  to  be  reckoned  by  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  good  fighting  men.  Woe  unto 
you,  O  Christian  knight,  if,  to  work  out  your 
own  vengeance,  you  have  lured  me  with  false 
words." 

Julian,  greatly  troubled,  retired  to  his  tent,  and 
called  to  him  his  page,  the  same  who  had  brought 
him  the  letter  of  Florinda  from  Toledo. 

"My  pretty  boy,"  he  said,  passing  his  arm 
about  his  neck,  "you  know  that  I  love  you  almost 
as  a  son.  Now  is  the  time  to  serve  me.  Hie  to 
the  Christian  camp,  and  find  the  tent  of  my  kins- 
man, Archbishop  Opas.  Show  him  this  ring,  and 
tell  him  Julian  greets  him  and  demands  how 
Florinda  can  be  avenged.  Mark  well  his  answer. 
Repeat  it  word  by  word.  Carry  close  lips  and 
open  eyes  in  the  enemy's  camp.  If  challenged, 
say  you  are  one  of  the  household  of  the  archbishop, 


90  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

bearing  missives  from  Cordoba.  So  speed  you 
well,  my  boy.     Away,  away,  away.  " 

Along  the  margin  of  the  Guadalete  he  rode,  the 
soft  turf  giving  back  no  sound.  A  sword  girded 
to  his  saddle-bow,  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  mounted 
on  a  steed  as  fleet  as  air,  and  black  in  colour  as 
the  night. 

Brightly  gleamed  the  Christian  fires  around 
their  camp,  but  sadly  to  his  ear  came  the  plaints  of 
the  soldiers  wounded  in  the  skirmish,  who  had 
crawled  to  the  river  bank  to  slake  their  thirst. 
Then  with  a  groan,  a  dying  Moor,  doomed  to  ex- 
pire alone  under  an  alien  sky,  called  on  him  to 
stay,  and  his  trusty  horse  stumbled,  and  nearly 
fell,  over  the  prostrate  body  of  a  dead  knight 
lately  prancing  proudly  under  the  sun.  The  heart 
of  the  page  faltered.  Fain  would  he  have  stayed, 
for  he  had  served  in  courts,  and  was  of  a  gentle 
nature,  but  never  for  a  moment  did  he  tarry  on  his 
course,  or  let  compassion  tempt  him  to  help  such 
as  called  on  him  for  aid.  His  master's  word  was 
law,  and  he  had  said,  "Haste  thee  on  thy  way  for 
life  and  death. " 

Challenged  by  the  Christian  sentinels,  he  spoke 
the  words  Julian  had  taught  him,  and  passed 
through  to  the  tent  of  the  archbishop. 

Opas,  as  one  of  those  militant  churchmen  so 
common  in  that  age,  having  doffed  his  suit  of 
mail,  was  resting  after  the  fight.  When  his  own 
brother  had  fallen,  without  remorse  he  turned 
to  Roderich.      Now   Roderich   in  his  turn  was 


THE  EVE  OF  BATTLE  91 

betrayed  and  he  bethought  himself  of  his  kins- 
folk. 

A  stern,  high-featured  man,  with  a  ready  smile, 
like  winter  sunshine  upon  snow,  merciless  and 
hypocritical,  he  had  steered  his  way  through  two 
stormy  reigns,  and  was  now  believed  by  Roderich 
to  be  as  devoted  to  his  cause  as  he  had  seemed  to  be 
to  the  unhappy  Witica.  When  he  saw  the  ring 
his  brother-in-law  had  sent  him,  he  made  no  reply. 
For  awhile  he  contemplated  the  page  curiously, 
slowly  passing  his  jewelled  fingers  over  his  clean- 
shaven chin,  lost  in  thought;  then  he  broke 
silence : 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  hypocrite,  "the  mes- 
sage is  from  God.  Your  master  Julian  is  but 
the  mouthpiece  of  the  Most  High.  Since  the 
divine  voice  has  spoken,  and  given  us  time  to 
consider  its  judgment,  it  behoves  me,  his  servant 
in  all  things,  to  accomplish  his  will.  Hasten  back 
to  your  lord,  good  page,  and  tell  him  to  have  faith 
in  his  wife's  brother.  As  yet  my  own  troops  have 
not  unsheathed  the  sword,  but  are  fresh  and  ready. 
At  the  hour  of  noon  to-morrow,  when  both  armies 
are  engaged,  let  him  look  out;  I  will  pass  over  to 
the   Moslem." 

With  this  treacherous  message  the  page  de- 
parted, making  no  noise,  and  as  he  guided  his 
black  horse  along  the  lines  of  the  river  as  he  had 
come,  the  sound  of  an  arrow  whistled  by  his  ear, 
a  random  shot  which  did  not  harm  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Battle  of  Guadalete — OvertHrow  of 
Don  RodericK 

JLL  night  a  light  burned  in  the  tent 
of  Don  Roderich.  If  he  slept, 
his  slumbers  were  troubled.  Now 
the  pale  form  of  Florinda  rises 
before  him  with  sad  eyes,  then  the  hideous  vision 
of  the  necromantic  Tower  of  Hercules  haunts  him. 
He  starts  up,  and,  opening  the  purple  hangings  of 
his  tent,  gazes  out  at  the  starry  splendour  of  the 
Southern  night. 

Before  him  lay  the  grassy  flats  about  Xerez, 
dimly  lit  by  the  dark  glow  of  the  signal  fires  mark- 
ing the  verge  of  the  opposite  camps.  A  pale  cres- 
cent moon  hanging  over  the  Moslem  tents  brought 
out  the  lines  of  low  hills  far  back  on  the  horizon. 
Not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  tramp  of  the 
sentinels,  or  the  neigh  of  a  war-horse,  ill-stabled 
on  the  turf.  The  distant  click  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
roused  him  to  attention,  and  he  distinctly  saw  the 
shadowy  outline  of  a  single  horseman  hurrying 
along  the  river's  verge,  the  bearer  of  the  message 
big  with  his  doom. 

From  his  belt  he  drew  an  arrow  and  sped  it 
92 


BATTLE  OF  GUADALETE  93 

swiftly  from  a  golden  bow,  watching  its  silent 
course,  but  the  dark  figure  still  rode  on. 

Heavy  was  his  heart  within  him  as  he  watched 
the  dawn  of  day  (say  the  old  chroniclers),  not  for 
himself,  but  for  the  thousands  who  lay  stretched  in 
slumber  around,  and  the  thought  of  the  lonely 
Egilona  called  from  him  a  sigh.  Of  all  things,  to  a 
brave  heart  treachery  is  the  sorest  woe,  and  treach- 
ery he  knew  was  at  work  with  Julian  close  at  hand. 
He  would  have  challenged  him  to  single  battle, 
as  knight  to  knight,  but  for  the  memory  of  his 
crime.  This  made  him  shrink  before  the  father 
whose  just  vengeance  had  brought  the  invaders 
into  the  land. 

With  the  glorious  burst  of  morning  all  these 
dismal  thoughts  vanished.  Again  he  became  the 
brilliant  chief  who  had  wrested  from  Witica  the 
crown  of  Spain.  Again  his  heart  swelled  with 
the  ardour  of  battle,  as  he  prepared  to  lead  his 
army  with  the  pomp  proper  to  a  Gothic  king. 

A  comelier  monarch  never  drew  breath  than 
Roderich  as — attired  in  a  robe  of  beaten  gold, 
sandals  embroidered  in  pearls  and  diamonds  on 
his  feet,  a  sceptre  in  his  hand,  and  a  gold  crown 
on  his  head  resplendent  with  priceless  gems — he 
mounted  the  lofty  chariot  of  ivory,  drawn  by 
milk-white  horses  champing  bits  of  gold,  the 
wheels  and  pole  covered  with  plates  of  gold,  and 
a  crimson  canopy  overhead.  As  he  advanced  in 
front  of  the  army  shouts  of  delight  rent  the  air. 

"Forward,  brave  Goths,"  he  cried,  waving  his 


94  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

glittering  sceptre,  as  he  halted  in  the  front  of  the 
royal  standard.  "God  is  above  to  bless  the 
Christian  cause!  Your  king  leads  you!  Forward 
to  the  fight,  and  death  be  his  portion  who  shows 
any  fear!" 

Ere  his  voice  had  ceased,  the  sun,  which  had 
risen  brilliantly,  sank  behind  a  bank  of  vapour, 
and  a  rising  sirocco  raised  such  clouds  of  dust 
that  the  very  air  was  darkened. 

Various  was  the  fortune  of  the  day.  To  the 
battalions  of  light  Arab  horsemen,  throwing 
showers  of  arrows,  stones,  and  javelins,  the  old 
Gothic  valour  opposed  lines  of  steady  troops. 
Where  the  Moslem  fell,  the  Christian  rushed  in, 
seized  both  horse  and  armour.  Desperately  they 
fought  and  well,  until  the  plain  was  strewn  with 
prostrate  Moors. 

Don  Roderich,  throwing  off  the  cumbrous  robes 
of  state,  and  mounting  his  satin-coated  steed, 
Orelia,  a  horned  helmet  on  his  head,  sternly 
grasping  his  buckler,  was  foremost  wherever 
danger  menaced.  With  the  reins  loose  upon 
Orelia's  neck  (who  utters  a  wild  snort  rushing 
forward  at  full  speed  to  meet  the  charge)  the 
Moors  fled  before  him,  as  though  he  were  a  second 
Santiago  descended  from  the  skies. 

Tharyk,  the  one-eyed,  maddened  at  seeing  his 
battalions  retreating,  flung  himself  before  them, 
and,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  strove  to  stem  the  tide. 

"Oh,  Mussulmen, "  he  shouted,  "whither  would 
you  fly?     The  sea  is  behind  you,  the  enemy  in 


BATTLE  OF  GUADALETE  95 

front.  You  have  no  hope  but  in  valour.  Follow 
me;  aim  at  the  leaders.  Pick  off  the  Christian 
knights.  He  who  brings  in  the  head  of  the  Goth 
shall  swim  in  gold."  And  putting  spurs  to  his 
charger,  he  laid  about  him  to  right  and  left, 
trampling  down  the  foot-soldiers,  followed  by 
Tenedos,  a  Spanish  renegade,  and  a  whole  com- 
pany of  savage  Berbers,  who  fell  upon  Ataulfo  and 
the  men  he  led. 

A  hand-to-hand  conflict  ensued.  Ataulfo  was 
wounded  while  he  struggled  with  Tenedos,  whom 
he  had  felled  to  the  earth  with  his  battle-axe,  but 
his  good  horse  being  disabled  and  useless,  obliged 
him  to  dismount.  He  tried  to  seize  the  reins  of 
that  of  Tenedos,  but  the  sagacious  animal,  as  if 
recognising  the  hand  which  had  smitten  his  master, 
reared  and  plunged,  and  would  not  let  him  mount. 
On  foot  he  repulsed  a  whole  circle  of  assailants. 
Blow  after  blow  he  dealt  upon  the  enemy,  keeping 
back  the  fierce  crew  of  turbaned  Berbers  that 
sought  to  strike  him  down. 

"All  honour  to  Christian  chivalry,"  cried 
Tharyk,  who,  seeing  the  quick  gleam  of  swords  and 
scimitars  around  the  Gothic  prince,  spurred  to  the 
spot.  But  a  selfish  thought  came  to  crush  the 
generous  impulse  which  had  moved  him  for  a 
moment. 

"If  Ataulfo  falls,  it  will  be  death  to  the  army  of 
Roderich, "  whereupon  he  dealt  him  such  a  cruel 
blow  with  his  scimitar  as  felled  him  to  the  earth. 
A  pool  of  blood  formed  round  him.     Then  the 


96  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


Moor,  for  an  instant  separated  from  him  by  a 
squadron  of  horse,  led  by  Pelistes,  hastened  to 
deal  him  the  death-blow. 

No  Goth  possessed  the  moral  influence  of 
Pelistes.  He  was  the  high  priest  of  chivalry. 
With  him  rode  his  only  son.  In  vain  he  warned 
him  not  to  expose  himself.  In  vain!  The  die 
was  cast — he  fell !  His  maiden  battle  was  doomed 
to  be  his  last!  Alas!  poor  father!  Borne  on  the 
shields  of  his  vassals,  they  carried  the  boy  towards 
the  royal  tent,  where  Roderich  was  leading  his 
Gothic  guards  forward  to  terminate  the  battle  by 
a  victorious  onslaught. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  sun,  long  obscured 
by  clouds,  reached  the  meridian,  and  shone  forth 
in  sudden  lustre,  a  deafening  shout  was  heard,  and 
Archbishop  Opas,  in  a  complete  suit  of  armour, 
struck  out  from  the  centre  of  the  Christian  army 
at  a  gallop  to  join  the  Moors. 

From  that  moment  the  fortune  of  battle  changes. 
In  vain  does  Pelistes,  forgetting  his  grief,  lead  on 
such  as  would  follow  him.  For  the  first  time  his 
voice  falls  on  deaf  ears.  In  vain  Teodomir  en- 
deavours to  rally  his  veterans.  In  vain  Roderich 
on  his  war-horse ,  grasps  sword  and  buckler,  to 
reform  his  flying  troops.  Surrounded  and  assailed 
by  his  own  treacherous  subjects,  his  sword  flies 
like  lightning  round  his  horned  casque,  each  stroke 
felling  an  enemy.  Around  him  the  fight  thickens. 
"A  kingdom  for  his  head, "  cries  the  voice  of  Julian, 
pressing  closer  and  closer  with  his  perjured  band. 


OVERTHROW  OF  DON  RODERICH      97 

A  mortal  panic  falls  on  the  Christians.  Not 
only  do  they  not  fight,  but  they  throw  away  their 
arms  and  fly! 

For  three  whole  days  the  Bedouins  and  Berbers, 
the  fleetest  riders  among  the  Africans,  pursue  the 
flying  Goths  over  the  plains.  But  few  of  that  vast 
host  live  to  tell  the  tale.  Alone,  with  a  compact 
body  of  men,  Teodomir  manages  to  escape  into 
the  East,  and  Pelistes,  carrying  the  body  of  his 
son,  shuts  himself  up  behind  the  walls  of  Cordoba. 

AndRoderich? 

The  Christian  chronicler  who  furnishes  these 
details  records  that  the  king  fell  by  the  sword  of 
Julian,  but  this  is  too  much  of  a  monkish  morality 
to  be  true.  It  is  said  that  Orelia,  stained  with 
blood  and  disabled,  was  found  entangled  in  a 
marsh  on  the  borders  of  the  Guadalete,  the  sandals 
and  mantle  of  her  master  beside  her. 

But  where  history  is  silent  romancers  take  up 
the  tale,  in  those  same  ballads,  parodied  by  Cer- 
vantes, in  the  inimitable  scene  of  the  puppets,  in 
the  second  part  of  Don  Quixote,  when  Master 
Peter,  representing  Roderich's  tragic  death,  grows 
alarmed  at  the  Don's  frantic  wrath,  and  his  drawn 
sword,  and  cries,  "Hold!  hold!  These  are  no 
real  Berbers  and  Moors,  but  harmless  dolls  of 
pasteboard,  picturing  unhappy  King  Roderich, 
who  said,  'Yesterday  I  was  lord  of  Spain,  and 
to-day  I  have  not  a  foot  of  land  which  I  can  call 
my  own.  Not  half  an  hour  ago  I  had  knights 
and  empire  at  my  command,  horses  in  abundance, 


98  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

and  chests  and  bags  of  gold,  but  now  you  see  me  a 
ruined  and  undone  man! '" 

Roderich,  say  the  ballads,  did  not  perish  in  the 
battle  of  the  Guadalete,  but  seeing  that  the  day 
was  lost,  he  fled.  But  not  far,  for  the  sleek- 
skinned  Orelia,  bleeding  with  wounds  to  death,  soon 
fell.  Then  the  king  wandered  on  foot,  faint  and 
sick,  his  sword  hacked  into  a  saw,  his  jewelled 
mail  drilled  through.  On  the  top  of  the  highest 
rock  (that  is  not  much,  for  we  are  in  the  eternal 
plains)  he  sits  down  and  weeps.  Wherever  he 
turns  the  sight  of  death  meets  his  gaze.  His 
valiant  Goths  have  fallen  or  have  fled.  No 
refuge  is  left  in  the  walled  cities,  or  by  the  sea- 
shore. Toledo,  his  capital,  is  far  away,  and  who 
knows  if  his  banner  still  floats  from  the  Alcazar 
towers?  Below  is  the  battlefield  stained  with 
Christian  blood.  There  his  royal  banner  trails  in 
the  dust.  The  bodies  of  his  dying  troops  cover 
the  plain.  The  shrill  cry  of  the  Arab  comes 
sharply  to  his  ear.  He  can  discern  the  form  of 
Julian,  sword  in  hand,  dealing  destruction  to  such 
as  still  linger,  and  Tharyk,  on  his  Arab  courser 
white- turbaned,  more  terrible  than  the  phantoms 
of  the  black  kings  who  haunt  the  desert ! 

Just,  however,  as  Roderich,  in  despair,  is  about 
to  kill  himself  (so  the  ballad  says)  a  shepherd 
appears,  who  gives  him  food,  and  conducts  him  to 
a  neighbouring  hermit.  The  hermit,  on  learning 
who  he  is,  regards  him  somewhat  dubiously,  ex- 
horts him  to  pray,  and  purify  himself  from  sin. 


OVERTHROW  OF  DON  RODERICH      99 

As  to  hospitality  he  can  offer  him  only  an  open 
grave,  into  which  Roderich  descends  without  a 
murmur,  in  company  with  a  big  black  snake.  If 
his  repentance  be  sincere,  the  hermit  tells  him, 
the  snake  will  leave  him  harmless;  if  not,  it  will 
bite  him  until  he  dies. 

In  the  grave  the  king  lies  silent  for  three  days. 
Then  the  hermit  appears,  and  asks:  "How  fares 
it,  most  noble  king?  How  do  you  relish  your 
dark  bed  and  dismal  bedfellow?" 

"The  snake,"  answers  Roderich,  "is  black, 
and  rears  its  crest,  but  it  does  not  bite  me.  Pray 
for  me,  good  father,  that  I  may  be  unharmed. " 

But  that  very  afternoon,  sore  and  doleful  moans 
smite  the  hermit's  ear.  It  is  Roderich  from  the 
grave  crying,  "Father,  father,  the  snake  gnaws 
me.  Now,  now  I  feel  his  pointed  teeth.  O 
God,  will  it  soon  end? " 

At  which  the  hermit,  gazing  down,  exhorts  him 
to  bear  the  pain,  "to  save  his  sinful  soul,"  in  the 
true  style  of  monkish  consolation. 

And  thus  poor  Roderich  dies  a  miserable  death, 
verifying  what  Sancho  Panza  says  to  the  duchess, 
"that  all  the  silks  and  riches  of  the  Goths  did  not 
prevent  his  being  cut  off,"  and  the  traitor  and 
renegade,  Julian,  helps  the  Moors  to  possess  Xerez, 
and  the  plain  from  Seville  to  the  rock  of  Gibraltar, 
called  Gebel  Thdryk  (hill  of  Tharyk,)  which  they 
kept  for  many  centuries,  until  driven  out  by 
Alonso,  the  wise  King  of  Leon  and  Castile. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Cordoba — Pelistes — Don  Julian — 
Florinda 

|GAIN  we  are  at  Cordoba!  Under 
the  protection  of  its  river-girt 
walls  the  flying  Goths  draw 
breath.  From  Cordoba  the  king 
has  started  his  great  army,  spreading  like  waves 
over  the  Andalusian  plains.  To  Cordoba,  Pelistes 
and  a  few  terrified  fugitives  return,  bringing  tidings 
of  the  catastrophe. 

The  men  of  Cordoba  crowd  round  them  with 
terror  in  their  looks.  Pelistes  shakes  his  aged 
head,  tears  gather  in  his  eyes. 

"Roderich  is  fallen,"  they  cry.  "Your  silence 
reveals  it.  Be  to  us  a  king,  O  Pelistes,  and  defend 
us  from  the  Moors. " 

He  listens  in  silence.  He  neither  refuses  the 
offer,  nor  gives  consent.  His  heart  is  dead  within 
him.  Then  he  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  green  mountains 
of  the  Sierra  Morena,  which  give  so  pleasant  an 
aspect  to  the  great  Plaza  where  he  stands,  and  the 
long-suppressed  tears  well  over  and  run  down  his 
furrowed  cheeks,  at  the  thought  that  these  fair 
lands  and  the  white  city,  so  jocund  in  the  sun, 


PELISTES  101 

with  avenues  of  spreading  palms,  and  plane-trees, 
and  jasmine-planted  gardens,  shall  fall. 

"Citizens,"  he  says,  turning  to  the  hundreds 
whose  eager  eyes  are  fixed  on  him  as  shipwrecked 
mariners  note  the  advance  of  a  raft  in  a  stormy 
sea,  "I  swear  to  stand  by  you  to  the  end.  I 
will  undertake  the  defence  of  your  city. " 

A  solemn  oath  is  registered  there  on  the  Plaza 
(still  planted  with  palms  and  called  now  del 
gran  Capitan,  in  memory  of  another  great  leader, 
Gonsalo  de  Cordoba),  a  solemn  oath,  and  as  a 
sign  of  accepting  all  held  up  their  right  hands. 

But,  shameful  to  relate,  so  soon  as  the  scouts 
bring  word  of  the  advance  of  the  victorious  Moors, 
every  wealthy  burgher  within  Cordoba  packs  up 
his  goods  and  flees  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
Sierra.  The  monks  abandon  their  convents,  the 
women  follow,  and  only  the  poor  and  destitute  are 
left  to  the  mercy  of  the  invaders. 

To  the  sound  of  drums  and  cymbals  the  Moors 
march  in.  In  front  rides  the  Christian  renegade, 
Maguel,  his  turbaned  head  decorated  with  the 
crescent  of  command,  his  war-horse  carrying 
strings  of  Christian  heads,  dropping  blood  upon 
the  stones.  Next  is  Julian,  a  dark  scowl  upon  his 
face,  as  of  a  man  carrying  a  load  of  care.  How 
well  he  knows  each  tree  and  huerta  and  tower 
along  the  march — the  little  creek  in  the  Guadal- 
quivir, where  the  boats  are  moored ;  a  lone  castle  of 
defence,  looking  towards  the  hills  (now  called  "of 
Almodar"),  he  often  has  defended  against  the  wild 


io2  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

forays  of  the  Arabs;  the  Sierra  broken  into  cliffs 
and  precipices,  with  groves  and  gardens,  and  silvery 
streams,  studded  by  quintas  and  hamlets.  There, 
in  a  green  retreat  among  the  wooded  hills,  he  and 
Frandina  had  lived  when  Florinda  was  a  child. 
Here,  in  the  Alcazar,  he  had  met  Don  Roderich; 
and  the  remembrance  fills  him  with  such  sudden 
rage,  he  digs  his  spurs  into  the  smooth  flanks  of  his 
Arab  charger,  an  uncalled-for  violence,  resenting 
which,  the  fiery  animal  rears,  and  half  unseats  him. 

Yes,  it  was  at  Cordoba  that  he  consigned 
Florinda  to  his  care,  the  fair-faced  profligate. 
There  he  parted  from  her,  guileless  as  a  babe,  and 
now,  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Spain,  she 
is  known  by  the  name  of  La  Cava.  He  him- 
self is  but  a  vile  renegade.  Already  the  poison  of 
jealousy  is  working  at  his  heart.  The  Moors  dis- 
trust him,  though  they  owe  all  to  him.  Where 
would  "the  one-eyed"  have  been  but  for  him? 
And  Mousa,  and  Maguel,  and  the  rest?  And  such 
an  uncontrollable  burst  of  wrath  passes  over  him 
that  he  curses  aloud.  At  least  he  was  the  first 
in  the  court  of  Roderich,  and  now,  who  knows 
when  Andalusia  is  conquered  and  the  Moors 
need  him  no  more,  what  form  their  suspicion  may 
assume? 

Then  came  to  his  mind  uneasy  thoughts  of 
Frandina  and  of  his  son.  For  himself  he  cares  not. 
A  dagger  thrust  can  settle  all  his  fate — but  the 
boy!  his  only  son!  Is  he  safe  under  his  mother's 
care?     May  he  not  be  made  a  hostage  by  Tharyk? 


PELISTES  103 

Already  the  scent  of  treason  is  in  the  air ! 

Here  a  wild  clamour  breaks  in  upon  his  thoughts. 
The  white  walls  of  Cordoba  are  in  front,  and  a 
mighty  shout  of  " Allah!  there  is  no  God  but 
Allah,  and  Mahomet  is  his  Prophet,"  rises  from  a 
thousand  throats  of  swarthy  Africans,  careering 
wildly  over  the  grass,  Numidians,  with  fringed 
bands  and  armlets  on  elbow  and  ankle,  sun-dried 
sheikhs  and  wandering  Kalenders  and  Fakirs  in 
the  front  of  the  great  army,  mounted  on  camels 
and  mules. 

For  three  long  months  Pelistes,  well-named  the 
"Father  of  the  Goths,"  defended  the  battered 
Convent  of  St.  George,  within  which  he  barricaded 
himself.  Hope  of  succour  supports  his  courage. 
Teodomir  may  come,  or  young  Pelayo,  from 
Asturia  or  Leon. 

But  day  follows  day,  and  night  passes  on  to 
night,  under  the  lustre  of  the  southern  stars,  and 
no  help  comes.  Eager  eyes  hail  every  cloud  of 
dust  that  sweeps  the  plain,  and  interpret  dark 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  which  summer  tempests 
cast,  into  troops  of  Christian  knights  approaching. 
Alas!  no  human  form  is  visible,  save  now  and  then 
an  Arab  horseman,  riding  with  light  rein,  charged 
with  some  mission  from  Mousa  in  the  south. 

Famine,  too,  comes  to  try  them  with  its  ghastly 
face.  One  by  one  they  kill  the  horses,  which  had 
carried  them  so  gallantly  from  the  Guadalete  (to 
a  trooper  an  act  as  repulsive  as  the  murdering  of 


104  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

his  child) ,  and  strive  with  divers  ills  which  hunger 
brings. 

Pelistes,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  the  suffer- 
ings of  his  friends,  assembles  what  remains  of  the 
miserable  garrison,  and  thus  speaks  his  mind : 

"Comrades,"  he  cries,  in  a  voice  which  he  en- 
deavours to  make  cheerful,  "it  is  needless  to  con- 
ceal danger  from  brave  men;  our  case  is  desperate. 
One  by  one  we  shall  die  and  leave  no  sign.  There 
is  but  one  chance,  and  I  shall  brave  it.  To- 
morrow, before  break  of  day,  I  will  ride  forth  dis- 
guised as  one  of  these  base  renegades  of  whom 
there  are  so  many  in  Cordoba,  and,  God  willing, 
spur  on  to  Toledo.  If  my  errand  prosper,  I  shall 
be  back  in  twenty  days.  If  not,  at  least  I  shall 
return  to  die  with  you.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout! 
Five  beacon  fires  blazing  on  the  lowest  line  of  hills 
mean  success.  If  not,  the  blackness  of  despair 
engulfs  me." 

And  so  it  was.  As  the  faint  streaks  of  light 
tipped  the  craggy  tops  of  the  Sierra  with  points  of 
gold,  warning  the  shepherds  to  rise  and  tend  their 
sheep,  and  the  birds  flew  low,  waiting  for  further 
light  to  wing  their  course  into  the  upper  regions  of 
the  air,  Pelistes  rode  forth,  a  turban  on  his  head, 
along  the  silent  streets  of  Cordoba,  to  which  the 
shadows  of  long  lines  of  wall  give  such  an  Eastern 
aspect.  He  passed  the  gate,  but  lazily  guarded  at 
that  early  hour,  unchallenged,  in  company  with 
droves  of  cattle  and  mules  laden  with  sacks.  Then, 
pricking  the  sides  of  his  willing  horse, he  galloped  at 


PELISTES  105 

full  speed  along  the  tracks  which  mount  upwards, 
and,  ere  the  sun  rose,  had  gained  the  lower  spurs 
of  the  Sierra. 

At  the  gateway  of  a  quinta  he  draws  rein,  willing 
to  rest  his  panting  steed.  But  alas!  while  he 
tarries  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  riding  at  top- 
most speed  over  the  rocky  path  he  has  just 
traversed,  smites  his  ear.  In  an  instant  he  is  again 
in  the  saddle,  and  straining  upwards  to  conceal 
himself  in  a  rugged  hollow  beside  the  dried-up 
course  of  a  mountain  torrent. 

His  tired  horse,  wind-blown  and  trembling, 
falters  at  the  edge  and  falls,  rolling  with  Pelistes 
to  the  bottom.  Greatly  shaken  and  bleeding, 
Pelistes  extricates  himself  with  difficulty  and 
strives  to  raise  his  horse,  but  when  the  generous 
beast,  rising  with  a  groan  to  his  master's  call, 
stands  up,  it  falls  again  on  the  hard  stones, 
unable  to  keep  its  feet. 

Meanwhile,  on  comes  the  horseman  through  the 
falling  stones,  and  a  face  he  knows  too  well  looks 
over  the  brink  of  the  ravine,  and  a  voice  calls  out, 
"Well  met,  brave  Pelistes,  even  in  a  hole.  You 
have  ridden  bravely  from  Cordoba,  and  are  well 
mounted.  We  followed  you  ill,  but  here  we  are 
in  time." 

The  voice  is  that  of  Maguel.  For  all  reply, 
Pelistes,  standing  by  his  horse,  draws  his  sword. 

"Do  you  bandy  words  with  me  as  a  coward!" 
he  thunders,  brandishing  his  weapon.  "Stand 
forth!     If  you  are  a  man,  tie  your  horse  to  a  tree 


106  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

and  come  down  on  foot.  We  will  see  who  is  the 
better  man,  a  Christian  renegade  or  a  Gothic 
knight." 

And  fight  they  did,  and  desperately,  as  if  each 
held  a  nation's  ransom  at  his  sword's  point. 
Better  matched  warriors  never  clashed  steel. 
Fragments  of  shields  flew  around;  then  casques 
were  split,  and  blood  flowed  freely.  Still  they 
fought.  At  length  Pelistes,  who  had  been  much 
injured  by  his  fall,  began  to  show  signs  of  weak- 
ness, and  Maguel  perceiving  this,  pressed  on  him  the 
more,  until  Pelistes,  summoning  all  his  remaining 
strength  to  strike  a  final  blow,  failed  in  his  aim 
and  fell  prostrate  on  the  earth. 

"This  is  a  brave  foe,"  quoted  Maguel  to  his 
followers,  who,  renegade  though  he  was,  we  must 
allow  had  generous  qualities  or  he  would  have  run 
Pelistes  through.  "Let  us  save  his  life,  such  a 
knight  will  honour  our  triumph."  So,  unlacing 
his  buckler,  they  throw  water  on  his  face,  and 
raise  him  upright  against  a  barrier  of  rock. 

Though  plunged  in  a  deep  swoon,  Pelistes  lived, 
and  strapped  to  a  stout  palfrey  reached  Cordoba. 

When  the  imprisoned  captives,  straining  their 
eyes  for  any  sign,  see  him  surrounded  by  dusky 
Africans,  to  their  eyes  a  bleeding  corpse,  their 
very  souls  seem  dead  within  them.  Pelistes  gone, 
no  help  can  come.  To  sell  their  lives  dear,  they 
sally  forth,  but  are  soon  driven  back  into  the 
convent,  each  noble  Goth  dying  sword  in  hand. 


PELISTES  107 

The  convent  is  immediately  occupied  by  the 
Moors,  and  from  that  time  is  known  as  "St. 
George  of  the  Captives." 

Meanwhile,  Pelistes  found  friends  among  his 
foes.  Slowly  his  wounds  healed,  and  until  he 
was  restored  to  health  the  Arabs  carefully  tended 
him.  At  length,  when  he  was  able  to  walk, 
Maguel  (who  frankly  gloried  in  his  apostasy)  bade 
him  to  a  banquet  within  the  Alcazar.  It  was  a 
sore  trial  to  the  feelings  of  the  old  warrior,  but 
they  were  generous  foes.  As  a  prisoner,  he  could 
not  refuse  the  hospitality  of  his  hosts,  but  the  woes 
of  his  country  lay  heavy  at  his  heart.  The  grass 
was  still  green  over  the  graves  of  his  comrades,  and 
to  his  fancy  the  weapons  of  the  Moors  were 
crimsoned  with  their  blood. 

Pelistes  occupied  the  seat  of  honour  on  the  right 
hand  of  Maguel,  and  with  that  exquisite  courtesy, 
for  which  the  Moors  were  famous,  his  host  turned 
the  talk  on  the  valour  displayed  by  the  Christians, 
and  extolled  their  gallant  defence  of  Cordoba, 
specially  remembering  that  devoted  little  band 
who  had  perished  in  the  convent. 

"  Could  I  have  saved  their  lives, "  added  Maguel, 
"it  would  have  done  me  honour.  Such  enemies 
ennoble  victory.  Had  those  brave  knights  con- 
sented to  surrender  when  I  sent  in  a  flag  of  truce 
I  should  have  cherished  them  as  brothers." 

Pelistes  silently  acknowledged  the  enlightened 
chivalry  of  these  words,  but  his  heart  smote  him  so 
sorely  that  he  could  not  speak  for  some  moments. 


108  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

But  for  his  final  charge  to  them  "not  to  surrender" 
they  might  be  with  him  now!  At  length  words 
came  to  him. 

"Happy  are  the  dead,"  was  his  reply,  in  a  voice 
that  vibrated  with  emotion.  "They  rest  in  peace 
after  the  hard-fought  struggle.  My  companions  in 
arms  have  fallen  with  honour,  while  I  live  to  see 
fair  Spain  the  prey  of  strangers.  My  son  is  dead, 
cut  down  by  my  side  in  battle.  My  friends  are 
gone,  I  have  reason  to  weep  for  them.  But  one 
there  is" — and  he  raised  his  voice  and  a  dark 
fire  came  into  his  pale  eye —  "one  for  whom  I  shall 
never  cease  to  mourn;  of  all  my  brothers  in  arms 
he  was  the  dearest.  Of  all  the  Gothic  knights  he 
was  the  bravest.  Alas!  where  is  he?  I  know  not. 
There  is  no  record  of  his  death  in  battle,  or  I  would 
seek  for  him  in  the  waters  of  the  Guadalete,  or  on 
the  plains  of  Xerez ;  or  if,  like  so  many  others,  he  is 
doomed  to  slavery  in  a  foreign  land,  I  would  join 
him  in  exile,  and  we  would  mourn  our  country's 
loss  together." 

So  pathetic  was  the  tone  of  Pelistes,  so  thrilling, 
that  Maguel  and  the  emirs  who  sat  round  asked 
anxiously,  "Who  is  he?" 

"His  name,"  answered  Pelistes,  with  lowered 
voice,  glancing  round  the  table  as  he  spoke,  "was 
Don  Julian,  Conde  Espatorios  of  Spain." 

"How,"  cried  Maguel,  "my  honoured  guest, 
are  you  smitten  with  sudden  blindness?  Behold 
your  friend.  Do  you  not  see  him?  He  is  seated 
there, "  pointing  to  Julian,  at  some  distance  down 


DON  JULIAN  109 


the  board,  attired  in  the  turban  and  long  em- 
broidered caftan  of  a  Moor. 

Pelistes  paused,  slowly  raised  his  eyes,  then 
sternly  fixed  them  on  Julian.  "In  the  name  of 
God,  stranger,  answer  me,"  he  said,  "how  dare 
you  presume  to  personate  the  Conde  Espatorios?" 

Stung  to  the  quick,  Julian  rose,  flinging  a  furious 
glance  on  the  calm,  cold  eyes  riveted  upon  him. 
"Pelistes,"  he  cried,  "what  means  this  mockery? 
You  know  me  well.     I  am  Julian. " 

"I  know  you  for  a  base  apostate,"  thundered 
Pelistes,  the  great  wrath  within  him  finding  sudden 
vent,  "an  apostate  and  a  traitor.  Julian,  my 
friend,  was  a  Christian  knight,  devoted,  true,  and 
valiant,  but  you,  you  have  no  name.  Infidel, 
renegade,  and  traitor,  the  earth  you  tread  abhors 
you.  The  men  you  lead  curse  you,  for  you  have 
betrayed  Spain  and  your  king.  Therefore,  I 
repeat,  O  man  unknown,  if  you  declare  you  are 
Don  Julian,  you  lie.  He,  alas!  is  dead,  and  you 
are  some  fiend  from  hell  who  wears  his  semblance. 
No  longer  can  I  brook  the  sight. " 

So,  rising  from  the  table,  Pelistes  departed,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  Julian,  overwhelmed  with  con- 
fusion, amid  the  scornful  smiles  of  the  Moslem 
knights,  who  used  while  they  despised  him. 

As  yet,  however,  all  had  gone  well  with  him. 
If  a  traitor,  his  treason  was  successful.  He  held 
high  command  among  the  Arabs  under  Tharyk 
and  Mousa,  and  amassed  great  wealth  by  his 
country's  spoil,  but  he  loathed  himself  more  and 


no  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

more.  He  knew  that  all  men  despised  him.  Too 
old  and  too  serious  for  the  sensual  life  of  the  Moors, 
and  as  a  warrior  little  caring  to  be  delicately  fed 
and  housed,  he  sought  solace  in  the  company  of  his 
masculine  but  faithful  wife,  Florinda,  and  his  little 
son. 

Florinda,  alas!  how  changed!  Her  sweet,  soft 
eyes  were  wild.  The  delicate  bloom  upon  her 
cheek  had  deepened  into  a  fixed  red;  her  mouth 
made  for  kisses,  lined  and  hard,  her  whole  face 
strangely  haggard.  No  words  can  paint  the 
anguish  she  suffered  at  returning  into  Spain  with 
her  mother.  Julian  would  have  folded  her  in  his 
arms,  but  she  turned  from  him : 

"Touch  me  not,  my  father, "  she  cried,  shudder- 
ing. "Your  hand  pollutes  me.  Why  have  you 
brought  me  here?" 

"But,  my  daughter,"  answered  the  unhappy 
parent,  averting  his  face,  not  to  catch  the  re- 
proachful anguish  of  her  eyes,  "surely  it  is  not  for 
you  to  accuse  me?  All  I  have  done  was  to  avenge 
you." 

"Ah!"  she  answered  with  a  wild  laugh.  "That 
is  false.  I  called  for  you  in  my  trouble  to  take  me 
from  the  court,  and  the  reproachful  eyes  of  Egi- 
lona.  But  never,  never,  did  I  bid  you  visit  the 
wrong  I  had  suffered  upon  the  land.  What  had 
Spain  to  do  with  me?  No,  not  Florinda,  but  your 
own  ambition  prompted  you.  To  wear  the  crown 
of  Roderich  was  your  aim.  I  was  but  the  in- 
strument  of   your   ambition.     Let  me  go,"   she 


xb£n£iO  bns 


I 


Torre  del  Mihrab  and  Granada. 

you 


FLORINDA  in 


shrieked,  struggling  to  rush  out.  "  Do  you  see  " — 
and  she  pointed  upwards  to  the  chain  of  heights 
shutting  in  the  city —  ' '  the  hills  of  the  Sierra  take 
strange  shapes — I  dare  not  look  on  the  green 
valleys!  See  the  flying  Goths  curse  me.  They 
come!  They  come!  showing  their  gaping  wounds. 
Look,  look,  the  plains  run  with  blood.  The  figure 
of  the  king  rides  by !  I  know  him !  He  is  fair.  It 
is  Roderich,  but  sick  to  death.  See,  his  horse 
falters.  He  falls.  On,  on  they  come,  the  Gothic 
host,  but  with  the  faces  of  corpses.  Surely  they  did 
not  ride  thus  to  battle?  Do  you  hear  the  voices 
in  the  air?  Death,  death  to  Florinda!  And  I  will 
die,  as  they  bid  me ! " 

With  a  wild  cry  that  rang  round  the  perfumed 
groves  of  the  Alcazar,  before  Julian  could  stop  her, 
she  had  rushed  to  the  entrance  of  a  tower  which 
jutted  from  the  walls  into  the  garden,  and,  bound- 
ing up  the  stairs,  barred  the  upper  door. 

Her  father,  speechless  with  horror,  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot;  a  moment  more,  and  her  slight  form 
leaned  over  the  battlements.  •'  Now,  now,  I  come, " 
she  shouted.  "No  ghost  can  haunt  me  there," 
and  from  the  topmost  parapet  she  flung  herself ! 

Hapless  Florinda!  Thus  she  passed;  but  still 
in  that  garden,  it  is  said,  the  spiked  palm-leaves 
rustle  in  the  breeze,  like  souls  in  pain;  the  canes 
and  the  reeds  bow  their  heads  over  the  fountains, 
the  frogs  croak  sadly  in  the  cisterns,  and  a  Moorish 
cascade,  rushing  down  a  flight  of  marble  steps, 
sings  in  voiceless  melodies  her  name. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Krandina  and  her  Son  Put  to  DeatK 
by  .Alabor 

T  this  time  a  Mussulman  Emir, 
named  Alabor,  ruled  in  Cordoba 
under  the  Sultan  Suleiman  of  Da- 
mascus. Alabor,  who  was  a  hard 
and  zealous  follower  of  Mahomet,  looked  with 
suspicion  on  the  Christian  apostates,  who  pro- 
fessed his  faith  simply  to  save  their  lives,  but 
who  in  their  hearts  regarded  the  Moslem  invaders 
with  the  natural  hatred  of  a  conquered  race. 

Of  all  those  Gothic  knights  who  bore  arms  under 
Tharyk,  he  most  misdoubted  Julian.  Certain 
movements  of  insurrection  which  took  place 
among  the  Christians  in  Pelayo's  possessions  in 
the  yet  unconquered  district  of  the  Asturias  were 
not  without  suspicion  of  powerful  encouragement 
from  the  south. 

Julian,  on  the  death  of  Florinda,  had  resolved  to 
send  Frandina  and  his  little  son  back  to  Africa. 
Did  this  mean  that  he  was  preparing  to  play  false 
with  his  allies?  "A  traitor  once,  a  traitor  ever," 
thought  the  crafty  Alabor.  That  he  might  decide 
his  doubts  in  true  Moslem  fashion,  he  called  in  one 

112 


DEATH  OF  FRAN  DIN  A  AND  HER  SON    113 

of  those  miserable  impostors  called  fakirs,  who 
wander  over  the  face  of  the  land  in  the  East,  and 
profess  to  read  the  future  by  the  stars. 

After  listening  to  all  the  Emir  had  to  say,  the 
Fakir  began  his  incantation.  First  sand  was 
sprinkled,  then  squares  and  circles  and  diagrams 
were  drawn  upon  the  floor;  then,  while  standing  in 
the  midst,  he  affected  to  read  the  lines  of  fate  from 
a  parchment  covered  with  cabalistic  characters. 
"O  Emir,"  he  said,  "your  words  of  wisdom  are 
justified.     Beware  of  the  apostates. " 

"Enough,"  replied  the  Emir.  "They  shall 
die." 

At  that  time  Julian  was  still  at  Cordoba  in 
great  grief  for  the  recent  death  of  Florinda.  "Tell 
my  lord,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  the  earnest  in- 
vitation of  Alabor,  "I  pray  him  to  hold  me  ex- 
cused from  coming  to  visit  him.  Such  of  my 
followers  as  can  aid  him  in  any  warlike  project  I 
freely  send ;  but  for  myself  I  am  unable. " 

This  was  enough  for  Alabor;  here  was  ample 
confirmation  of  the  Fakir's  prediction.  So,  not  to 
be  behindhand  with  the  voice  of  fate,  he  at  once 
condemned  to  death  that  wily  churchman  and 
renegade,  Archbishop  Opas,  Frandina's  brother, 
who  had  turned  the  battle  of  the  Guadalete  against 
Roderich,  and  with  him  the  two  sons  of  Witica,  as 
possible  pretenders  to  the  crown. 

Still  Julian  escaped  him  by  a  rapid  flight  into 
Aragon.  But  his  wife  Frandina  and  his  only 
son  could  be  reached. 


ii4  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

The  castle  of  Ceuta,  which  formed  part  of  the 
Gothic  (Iberian)  African  possessions,  then  called 
Tingitana,  stood  on  an  extreme  point,  a  cape  of 
rocky  altitude,  with  bastions  and  mullioned  walls ; 
in  the  midst  rose  a  central  tower  or  citadel,  in 
which  the  governor  had  his  abode.  Few  case- 
ments there  were,  and  those  looking  over  the 
tossing  billows  of  that  unquiet  Strait  which  flows 
between  the  two  continents,  so  that  each  coming 
vessel  could  be  noted  long  before  it  touched  the 
quay;  a  place  wholly  of  defence,  and  which  had 
therefore  been  chosen  to  shelter  Julian's  wife 
and  son. 

Frandina,  a  woman  of  masculine  courage  and 
keen  understanding,  had  at  all  times  fanned  the 
flame  of  her  husband's  ambition.  No  longer 
young,  she  still  bore  traces  of  that  radiant  beauty 
which  had  held  her  lord  faithful  in  the  dissolute 
courts  of  Witica  and  Roderich. 

On  her  brow  should  have  rested  the  pointed  dia- 
dem worn  by  the  Gothic  queens ;  not  on  a  Moorish 
stranger  who  could  never  learn  the  customs  of  the 
land.  Ever  hoping  to  attain  the  object  of  her 
desires  she  wilfully  worked  on  the  evil  passions  of 
her  lord,  before  the  calamity  which  befell  Florinda 
came  as  a  cause  and  a  reason  for  treason. 

No  figure  of  that  romantic  period  stands  out  in 
stronger  relief  than  that  of  Frandina,  who  moves 
and  speaks  before  us  in  her  habit  as  she  lived  in 
spite  of  the  long  track  of  centuries. 

Without  news  from  Spain,  knowing  nothing  of 


DEATH  OF  FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON    115 

what  has  happened  at  Cordoba  to  her  brother 
Opas  or  to  her  lord,  she  eats  out  her  heart  in 
ceaseless  watching  for  some  white-sailed  felucca 
or  swift-rowed  trireme  to  bring  her  tidings.  All 
day  she  has  trod  the  battlements  looking  north- 
ward, and  strained  her  eyes  in  vain.  Now  she 
sits  in  her  chamber.  An  iron  lamp  casts  a  weird 
light  on  the  tapestries  which  line  the  walls,  the 
wind  moans  without  about  the  turrets,  and  the 
dashing  waves  roll  deep  below. 

Is  it  the  hollow  moan  of  the  far-off  tempest, 
or  the  screech  of  an  owl  which  makes  her  start 
from  her  seat  and  eagerly  listen? 

There  is  no  fall  of  feet  upon  the  winding  stairs, 
but  a  well-known  voice  comes  to  her  so  plainly  that 
she  rushes  to  the  door.  Ere  she  can  reach  it,  her 
brother  Opas  stands  before  her,  habited  as  she  last 
saw  him  in  the  flowing  vestments  of  an  archbishop ; 
not  in  aspect  as  he  appeared  in  life,  but  as  a  wan 
and  shadowy  spectre  unfolding  itself  to  her  sight 
in  the  darkness  around.  Before  she  can  speak 
he  waves  her  off.  He  is  ghastly  pale,  and  drops 
of  blood  seem  to  fall  from  his  head.  With  one 
hand  he  points  to  the  opposite  wall  where  burns 
like  orbs  of  fire  the  word,  Beware  ! 

"Touch  me  not,  sister,"  a  hollow  voice  utters; 
' '  I  am  come  from  the  grave  to  warn  you.  Guard 
well  your  son.  The  enemies  of  our  house  are  near. ' ' 
Thus  speaking  all  disappears.  His  coming  and 
going  are  alike  mysterious.  Brave  as  she  is,  a 
horror  she  never  knew  before  comes  over  Frandina. 


n6  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Next  morning,  in  the  fair  sunlight,  a  swiftly 
rowing  galley  brings  the  news  of  Opas's-death  and 
Julian's  flight.  Not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost! 
There  in  the  offing  she  descries  the  Moorish  fleet, 
bearing  the  Emir  from  Cordoba.  The  wind  blows 
fair  for  Africa — before  noon  he  will  be  off  the  shore. 
Fifty  Moors,  who  form  part  of  the  garrison,  are 
put  to  death  with  incredible  cruelty  for  fear  of 
treachery ;  the  city  gates  are  closed. 

Alabor,  whose  fury  knows  no  bounds,  for  he  has 
calculated  on  arriving  before  the  news  has 
reached  Frandina,  orders  the  castle  to  be  assaulted 
on  every  side.  The  walls  are  carried.  Frandina, 
shut  up  in  the  citadel  with  a  forlorn  hope,  has  no 
thought  but  for  the  safety  of  her  son.  How  con- 
ceal him?  A  mother's  wit  is  keen.  Among 
the  living  he  is  not  safe,  but  surely  they  will  not 
seek  him  with  the  dead.  Passing  down  long 
flights  of  narrow  steps  she  carries  him  below  into 
a  dark,  damp  chapel.  Scarcely  a  ray  of  light 
penetrates  the  gloom. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  the  darkness,  my  boy?"  she 
asks,  kissing  his  warm  cheek. 

"No,  mother.  I  shall  fancy  that  it  is  night,  and 
try  to  sleep." 

On  one  side  of  a  narrow  marble  aisle,  held  up 
by  clustered  pillars,  is  the  freshly  built  tomb  of 
Florinda,  whose  body  has  been  carried  here  from 
Cordoba. 

"Do  you  fear  your  dead  sister,  my  boy?"  again 
Frandina  asks. 


DEATH  OF  FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON    117 

"No,  mother;  the  dead  can  do  no  harm.  Why- 
should  I  fear  Florinda?  " 

Unbarring  the  entrance  which  leads  into  the 
vault,  Frandina  stands  on  the  threshold,  her 
arms  around  her  son. 

"Listen, "  she  says,  and  her  kisses  rain  upon  his 
cheek  as  she  strains  him  to  her  bosom  in  an  agony 
of  fear.  "The  Moors  from  Spain  have  sailed  over 
to  murder  you.  Stay  here  with  your  dead  sister, 
dear  child;  her  spirit  will  guard  you.  Lie  quiet 
for  your  life!" 

The  boy  kissed  his  mother,  and  fearlessly  de- 
scended the  steps,  to  where  the  marble  coffin  holding 
Florinda's  body  lay  on  a  still  uncovered  stand. 
The  faded  wreaths  cast  on  it  gave  out  a  stale 
perfume. 

All  that  day  and  the  next  and  the  following  night 
the  brave  boy  lay  still. 

Meanwhile,  the  troops  of  the  Emir  penetrated 
into  the  citadel,  and  Alabor  himself  forced  his 
way  into  the  chamber  of  the  countess. 

"My  lord,"  she  said,  rising  from  the  ponderous 
chair  in  which  she  was  seated,  a  sarcastic  courtesy 
in  her  tone  and  in  the  low  obeisance  with  which  she 
greeted  him,  "you  are  pleased  to  profit  somewhat 
ungallantly  by  the  absence  of  my  lord.  Do  you 
deem  this  a  fitting  way  to  enter  the  stronghold  of 
him  to  whom  you  owe  the  conquest  of  Spain?  " 

The  Emir,  surprised  by  the  dignified  calm  of  her 
demeanour,  would  have  withdrawn,  but  the  Fakir 
who  had  followed  him,  pulled  the  sleeve  of  his 


n8  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

garment,  and  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Ask  for  her 
son. 

Low  as  the  words  were  spoken,  she  heard  them 
and  turned  pale.  "My  son,  great  Alabor,  is  with 
the  dead.     Let  him  rest  in  peace. " 

"Wife  of  Don  Julian,"  cried  the  Emir,  "you 
trifle  with  me.  Where  is  he?  Tell  me,  or  torture 
shall  make  you." 

"Emir,"  she  spoke  again,  and  her  calm  face 
showed  no  trace  of  fear,  "if  I  have  not  spoken 
the  truth,  may  everlasting  fire  be  my  portion.  He 
is  with  the  dead." 

Alabor  was  confounded  by  the  composure  of  her 
answer.  So  great  was  her  courage  and  the  dignity 
with  which  she  faced  him,  that  he  was  just  about 
to  retire,  when  the  Fakir  again  broke  in : 

"Let  me  deal  with  her,  my  lord,"  he  said. 
"The  heart  of  the  Emir  is  too  tender.  I  will  find 
the  boy.     Soldiers,  search  the  vaults  of  the  castle. " 

No  trace  upon  the  countenance  of  Frandina 
betrayed  alarm.  She  herself  led  the  way  to  the 
different  subterranean  chambers  within  the  citadel. 
When  the  searchers  and  the  grim  old  Fakir,  hideous 
and  naked,  save  for  a  ragged  cloth  about  his  loins, 
but  esteemed  all  the  more  holy  from  his  filth,  de- 
scended the  winding  stairs  leading  to  the  chapel, 
Frandina  did  not  falter.  In  her  presence  every 
corner  was  ransacked  by  the  aid  of  torches.  No- 
thing was  found.  But  as  all  were  leaving,  and  she 
stood  already  under  the  arch  of  the  door,  to  see 
them  all  file  safely  by,  some  gleam  of  relief,  some 


DEATH  OF  FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON    119 

unconscious  look  of  joy  passed  over  her  face.  It 
was  noted  by  the  horrible  Fakir. 

"She  rejoices,"  was  his  thought.  "We  are 
leaving  the  boy  behind.  Let  further  search  be 
made,"  he  commands,  turning  back  the  soldiers, 
whose  feet  were  already  on  the  stairs. 

"The  boy  is  with  the  dead, "  Frandina  had  said. 
Now  the  words  came  back  to  him  with  a  special 
meaning,  for  the  walls  were  lined  with  tombs 
which  stood  out  conspicuous  in  the  vivid  glare  of 
the  torches,  striking  on  the  marble  panels.  On 
one  was  the  escutcheon  of  an  ancient  knight,  sur- 
mounted by  a  coronet ;  there  a  sculptured  figure  in 
armour  lay  at  rest;  further  on  a  deeply  indented 
effigy  in  coloured  stone,  upon  which  an  inscription 
set  forth  the  valour  of  the  mouldering  bones 
within.  The  tomb  of  Florinda,  white  and  glisten- 
ing by  the  side  of  the  others,  displayed  her  effigy 
in  polished  marble,  a  delicately  chiselled  form — 
this  at  once  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Fakir. 

' '  Who  lies  there  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  his  twinkling 
eyes,  overshadowed  by  hairy  eyebrows,  on  the 
shrinking  figure  of  Frandina,  who,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  sought  to  hide  her  face  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  a  pillared  vault,  beside  the  gate  of 
entrance;  "this  tomb  seems  the  newest." 

"It  is  my  daughter's  tomb,"  replied  Frandina; 
but  with  all  her  fortitude,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
trembling  in  her  voice,  and  her  dry  lips  could 
scarcely  articulate  the  words,  "She  is  but  lately 
dead." 


120  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

The  Fakir  eyed  her  with  a  devilish  glance.  Then, 
turning  to  the  Moorish  soldier,  whose  eyes  rolled 
under  the  high  turban  with  a  wicked  satisfaction 
at  the  discomfiting  of  the  Christian, — 

"Search  within,"  he  orders,  his  gaze  bent  on 
her.  Alas!  it  was  soon  done.  The  entrance  of 
the  recently  entered  monument  was  partly  open; 
within  lay  what  death  had  spared  of  Florinda,  the 
bier  covered  with  a  fine  cloth  of  Eastern  tissue, 
the  hands  covered  with  precious  stones. 

At  first,  the  Nubian  guard,  staggered  at  the 
strange  sight,  fall  back,  but  soon  recalled  by  the 
stern  voice  of  the  Fakir,  they  lifted  the  pall. 
The  boy  lay  underneath !  He  was  asleep,  his  soft 
cheek  turned  upwards,  cradled  on  his  arm. 

Like  a  figure  carved  in  stone  stood  Frandina, 
but  when  she  saw  her  son  her  mother's  heart  gave 
way.  With  a  shriek,  so  piercing  that  it  woke 
the  echoes  in  the  prisons  underneath,  she  dashed 
forward  and  cast  herself  upon  the  child. 

"Mercy,  O  Emir!  if  you  have  ever  known  a 
mother's  care!  Mercy!  mercy!  This  is  my  only 
child — the  joy  of  my  life — my  little  son!  Take 
me  for  him!"  and  raising  herself  on  her  knees  with 
frantic  passion,  the  boy  clinging  round  her  neck, 
she  tries  to  grasp  his  hands. 

Wrenching  himself  from  her  as  if  she  were  some 
noxious  animal,  Alabor  thunders  to  the  guards: 
"Take  this  woman's  son  from  her,  and  bear  her 
hence  to  the  deepest  dungeon." 

The  boy  stood  alone  before  the  Emir,  big  tears 


DEATH  OF  FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON    121 

rolling  down  his  face,  not  from  fear,  but  for  the 
sake  of  his  mother,  whose  frantic  screams  were 
heard  long  after  they  had  dragged  her  away. 

If  Alabor  had  but  a  spark  of  human  pity,  he 
would  have  melted  to  the  pretty  boy,  who  faced 
him  so  bravely,  but  he  had  sworn  the  destruction 
of  Don  Julian's  race,  and  his  heart  hardened  within 
him  as  he  gazed  on  the  innocent  eyes.  With  a 
keen  searching  glance  he  measured  the  slight 
figure  of  the  child,  and  smiled  to  see  how  frail 
he  was  and  small. 

"  Yusa,  "he  said  to  the  Fakir,  "be  you  the  keeper 
of  Julian's  son.  Guard  him  as  you  love  me." 
And  so  he  and  his  guards  departed,  leaving  them 
alone. 

"I  pray  you,"  said  the  boy,  undaunted  by  the 
looks  of  his  grim  companion,  who  stood  holding  a 
torch  and  watching  him  under  his  overhanging 
eyebrows,  "to  give  me  air.  I  have  lain  three  days 
in  this  close  tomb,  and  I  am  faint. " 

Without  a  word  they  mount  the  winding  stair, 
until  they  reach  the  platform  of  the  keep.  Through 
the  high  turrets  was  a  wondrous  view  across  the 
Straits,  lined  by  broad  currents  of  varying  blues 
and  greens,  to  where,  dim  in  the  distance,  lay  the 
lowlands  of  Spain.  Round  and  round  flew  the  sea- 
gulls, below  the  waves  beat,  thundering  on  the 
rocks  which  guard  the  harbour,  cresting  back  in 
foam.  As  the  child  stood  near  the  battlements, 
the  sea  wind  raising  his  curly  hair,  he  gave  a  cry  of 
joy  and  clapped  his  hands. 


122  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Do  you  know  what  land  that  is  opposite?" 
asks  the  Fakir,  pointing  to  the  dim  coast  line,  an 
evil  leer  upon  his  lips. 

"It  is  my  country,"  is  the  answer,  "we  come 
from  Spain;  my  mother  told  me." 

"Then  bless  it,  my  boy;  stretch  forth  your 
arms." 

As  the  boy  loosened  his  hold  of  the  parapet,  the 
cunning  Fakir  seized  him  by  the  waist,  and,  with  a 
sudden  motion,  flung  him  over  the  battlements. 
Every  bone  in  his  delicate  body  was  broken  ere  it 
reached  the  rock  where  he  lay,  a  little  lifeless  heap. 

"How  fares  it  with  Julian's  son? "  asks  the  voice 
of  Alabor,  as  he  appears  on  the  platform  of  the 
keep. 

"Well, "  is  the  brief  answer. 

"  Is  he  safe?  "  he  asks  again,  looking  round. 

"He  is  safe,"  answered  Yusa;  "behold!" 

And  the  Emir  looked  over  and  saw  the  battered 
form,  like  a  slight  speck  below,  around  it  the  sea- 
gulls and  vultures  already  circling. 

The  following  morning,  at  the  break  of  day,  in 
the  great  court  of  the  castle,  from  which  all  the 
issues  to  the  different  towers  open,  Frandina  is  led 
out  for  execution. 

That  she  knows  her  son  is  dead,  is  written  in  her 
eyes.  No  word  passes  her  lips.  Like  a  queen  she 
moves,  command  in  every  gesture.  With  her  the 
Christians  of  the  garrison  are  brought  forth  to 
suffer.  As  the  dismal  procession  passes  round  the 
court,  the  voice  of  the  insatiable  Alabor  is  heard : 


DEATH  OF  FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON    123 

"Behold,  0  men  of  Spain,  the  wife  of  your  com- 
mander. See  the  ruin  to  which  her  treason  would 
have  brought  you.  Let  every  man  take  a  stone 
and  fling  it  at  her  till  she  dies.  He  that  refuses 
shall  have  his  head  struck  off.  In  the  hand  of  God 
is  vengeance.     Not  on  our  heads  be  her  blood. ' ' 

How  or  where  Julian  himself  died  is  not  certain. 
Some  chronicles  say  he  perished  in  the  mountains 
of  Navarre,  where  he  had  taken  refuge;  others 
that  he  met  his  death  in  the  castle  of  Marmello, 
near  Huesca,  in  Aragon.  A  violent  death  of  some 
sort  came  to  the  great  Kingmaker  of  Spain. 

On  his  name  a  perpetual  curse  rests,  and  to  this 
day,  in  Spain  "Julian"  is  synonymous  with 
traitor. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Moors  at  Seville — Mousa  and 
-A.bd\il-asis 

EANWHILE  the  great  Emir  Mousa 
is  moved  by  fierce  jealousy  of  the 
success  of  Tharyk  of  the  one- 
eye.  Not  only  had  he  overrun 
the  mountains  of  the  Moon  and  conquered  Gra- 
nada, but  the  city  of  Toledo,  the  capital  of  North- 
ern Spain,  was  opened  to  him  by  the  Jews. 

This  is  too  much  to  bear  from  an  inferior.  Swift 
messengers  are  despatched  across  the  Straits  to 
bid  him  wait  until  Mousa  arrives.  He  laughs  to 
scorn  the  message,  and  battles  as  before,  his  light 
squadrons  penetrating  farther  and  farther  into  the 
north  of  Spain. 

Mousa  had  many  sons,  but  history  concerns 
itself  with  one  only,  by  name  Abdul-asis,  pale- 
skinned,  with  large  romantic  eyes  and  a  too  tender 
heart.  Abdul-asis  sailed  with  his  father  across  the 
Straits,  and  a  great  army  of  Moors  and  illustrious 
emirs  accompanied  them. 

"By  the  head  of  the  Prophet, "  quoth  Mousa,  as 
he  consulted  the  map  of  Spain,  "that  hireling  of 

the  one-eye  has  left  us  no  land  to  conquer.     He  is 

124 


THE  MOORS  AT  SEVILLE  125 

a  glutton,  who  eateth  all. "  But  on  a  more  minute 
examination,  it  was  found  that  there  was  still  room 
in  the  vast  country  of  Spain  for  earning  further 
laurels.  Tharyk  had  as  yet  left  Andalusia 
unconquered. 

Andalusia!  the  very  name  is  poetry — mystic, 
unfathomed,  vague!  Reaching  far  back  into 
fabulous  ages  where  history  cannot  follow!  The 
home  oijonglerie,  magic,  and  song!  Would  that  I 
could  paint  the  turquoise  of  its  skies,  the  endless 
purple  of  its  boundless  plains,  the  dusky  shade  of 
orange  and  myrtle  woods  dashed  with  the  vivid 
green ! 

What  art!  what  knowledge!  And  the  sensuous 
charm  of  a  heavenly  climate,  where  winter  is  never 
known,  and  spring  passes  into  summer  without  a 
struggle ;  a  land  loved  by  the  veiled  beauties  of  the 
East,  looking  down  through  shadows  of  the  fretted 
miradores,  marble  galleries,  and  patios,  on  barbi- 
can towers  and  Roman  walls! 

And  what  a  people,  cloudless  in  temper  as  the 
heavens!  To  love  flowers,  to  dance  seguidillas, 
and  oles,  and  to  tell  tales,  that  is  your  Andalusian — 
grouped  in  circles  anywhere,  under  a  hedge  or  a 
plane-tree,  on  a  grassy  knoll,  in  gilded  halls,  or 
beneath  painted  arches.  A  happy,  thoughtless  race 
at  all  times,  taking  life  and  conquest  as  it  comes. 

If  Andalusia  is  left  to  Mousa,  Tharyk  has  lost 
the  fairest  jewel  of  Spain. 

Abdul-asis  spoke  to  his  father. 


126  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"My  lord  and  father,"  he  said,  "as  yet  I  have 
done  nothing  to  deserve  a  sword.  Behold,  when 
my  service  is  over,  and  I  return  to  Egypt  and 
appear  before  the  Sultan,  what  will  he  say  when  I 
answer  that  I  have  gained  no  battle,  and  taken  no 
city  or  castle?  Good  my  father,  if  you  love  me, 
grant  me  some  command,  and  let  me  gain  a  name 
worthy  of  your  son. " 

To  this  Mousa  answered:  "Allah  be  praised! 
The  heart  of  Abdul-asis  beats  in  the  right  place. 
Your  desire,  my  son,  shall  be  granted.  While  I  go 
north,  to  besiege  Merida,  you  shall  march  south- 
wards. Seville  has  defeated  the  Moors,  and 
quartered  Christian  troops  in  the  barbican.  Be 
it  your  care  to  drive  out  these  unbelieving  dogs, 
and  plant  once  more  the  Crescent  on  the  Giralda 
tower.  Reduce  the  city,  and  spoil  the  land. 
Then  pass  southward,  and  conquer  the  province  of 
Murcia,  where  the  Gothic  Teodomir  defends  him- 
self with  a  handful  of  troops. " 

When  Abdul-asis,  who  read  the  Persian  poets 
and  had  himself  tried  his  hand  at  verse,  came  in 
sight  of  beautiful  Seville,  lying  like  a  white  lily 
surrounded  by  the  shadows  of  dark  woods,  he 
sighed  : 

"Alas!  is  it  for  me,"  he  said,  "to  bring  destruc- 
tion upon  so  fair  a  scene?  Why  am  I  come  to  dye 
with  blood  those  flowery  groves,  and  burden  the 
tide  of  the  Guadalquivir  with  corpses?  Alas!  why 
did  not  my  father  choose  some  place  less  lovely  on 


THE  MOORS  AT  SEVILLE  127 

which  to  bring  ruin  than  this  the  palm-crowned 
queen  of  cities!" 

Thus  mourned  Abdul-asis,  but  not  so  the  fiery 
Africans  whom  he  commanded.  They  gazed  on 
the  walls  with  wrath,  and  longed  to  flesh  their 
scimitars  in  Christian  blood. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  the  merci- 
ful Abdul-asis  stopped  the  massacre  when  the  city 
fell.  It  pained  his  gentle  heart,  for  its  many 
beauties,  especially  the  palm-planted  gardens  of 
the  Alcazar,  vocal  with  purling  streams  and 
bubbling  fountains,  so  dear  to  the  Arab  fancy. 

"Here,"  thought  Abdul-asis,  as  he  wandered 
among  the  myrtle-bordered  paths,  fragrant  with 
jasmine  and  violet,  "is  the  paradise  promised  to 
the  faithful,  but  where  are  the  houris,  whose  white 
embraces  are  to  make  it  sweet?"  Neither  did  the 
voluptuous  movements  of  the  dancing  girls  (for 
Seville  in  all  ages  has  been  famed  for  the  baile), 
moving  with  uplifted  arms  and  quivering  limbs 
in  the  vito  or  the  zapateado,  intoxicate  his  senses ; 
nor  did  the  voices  of  the  young  ninas,  chanting  the 
malaguenas  to  cither  and  lute,  draw  him  from  the 
poetic  melancholy  which  possessed  his  soul,  as  he 
turned  his  steps  from  alley  to  alley,  not  having 
yet  found  the  ideal  of  which  he  was  in  search. 

But  the  son  of  Mousa  was  a  warrior,  though 
the  gods  had  made  him  poetical.  He  could  not 
long  be  idle,  and  hastened  to  fulfil  the  second 
mission  confided  to  him  by  Mousa — to  overcome 
the  far-off  province  of  Murcia. 


128  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Another  faithful  knight  who  had  survived  the 
battle  of  the  Guadalete  was  Teodomir,-  who,  by 
skilful  management  had  entrenched  himself  in 
Murcia.  Not  only  brave,  but  singularly  prudent, 
Teodomir  had  observed  that  to  oppose  the  Moors 
openly  in  the  field  was  to  ensure  defeat,  therefore 
he  had  fortified  as  best  he  could,  every  wild  recess 
of  the  rocky  hills  lying  toward  the  coast,  and  every 
rise  and  knoll  whence  he  could  shoot  down  arrows 
and  missiles.  So  that  when  Abdul-asis  appeared 
in  the  land,  cleft  asunder  by  wide  rivers  and 
divided  by  swamps  and  flats,  he  encountered  no 
enemy. 

"This  is  a  blind  warfare,"  he  cried,  "a  war 
without  a  foe.  What  manner  of  man  is  this  Goth 
who  wages  war  in  the  clouds,  and  with  a  few  raw 
troops  holds  my  army  in  check?  " 

With  a  grim  smile  Teodomir  marked  the  success 
of  his  tactics.  Spies  told  him  that,  in  the  council 
of  Abdul-asis,  retreat  had  already  been  mooted, 
and  more  and  more  he  insisted  upon  giving  his 
enemy  no  chance  in  the  open. 

Not  so  his  sons.  "What  glory  is  there  here?" 
say  these  youths.  "  Let  us  go  forth  and  face  him. 
We  are  as  good  as  he.  If  our  men  are  less  dis- 
ciplined, courage  makes  up  the  balance." 

"Fools,"  answered  old  Teodomir,  laying  his 
wrinkled  hands  upon  them,  and  drawing  them  to 
him,  that  he  might  make  them  if  possible  under- 
stand his  counsels.  "  Glory  dazzles  from  afar,  but 
safety  is  the  best  when  a  foe  knocks  at  the  door. " 


THE  MOORS  AT  SEVILLE  129 

Continued  dropping  wears  a  stone.  To  his 
great  joy,  as  the  sun  rose  and  the  weary  eyes  of 
handsome  Abdul-asis  turned  towards  the  marshy 
plains,  he  beheld  Teodomir  riding  onwards  towards 
the  camp  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  a  son  on 
either  hand,  the  old  Goth  in  the  centre  in  shining 
armour,  with  nodding  plumes,  preceded  by  flags 
and  horsemen. 

"Now  Allah  be  praised!"  he  exclaims.  "At 
last!  Saddle  my  war-horse  Suleiman,  and  let  all 
the  sheikhs  follow  me,  for  it  is  written  in  the  book 
of  fate  that  these  dogs  of  Christians  are  given  into 
our  hands." 

"Alas!  my  sons,"  said  Teodomir,  reining  up  his 
steed,  as  his  practised  eye  showed  him  the  purpose 
of  the  dark  body  of  advancing  Arabs,  with  the 
green  flags,  galloping  rapidly  in  the  rear,  under  the 
cover  of  the  heights.  "Alas!  it  has  happened  as  I 
said.  We  are  cut  off.  What  can  our  raw  troops 
do  against  these  well-armed  Arabs?  Let  us  make 
for  the  fastness  of  Orihuela  while  we  can. " 

The  sons,  however,  would  not  listen,  but  like 
vain  youths  opposed  their  father's  counsel,  as  did 
also  the  captains.  The  Moor  asked  for  nothing 
better.  He  attacked  then  fiercely  in  the  open 
plain,  cut  down  the  two  presumptuous  boys  before 
their  father's  eyes,  and  beat  his  troops,  who  fled  on 
all  sides. 

Nor  could  Teodomir  stay  the  flight.  Seeing 
that  all  was  lost,  and  his  sons  dead,  he  seized  the 
bridle  of  a  horse  ridden  for  him  by  a  little  page,  who 

VOL.  I. — 9 


130  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

tended  him  in  his  tent,  and  who  like  the  rest  was 
spurring  onward  in  full  flight. 

"Tarry  a  moment,  my  son,"  says  Teodomir, 
grasping  the  bridle  with  an  iron  grip.  "Mount  be- 
hind and  part  not  from  me,  for  I  will  save  thy  life ! " 

So  digging  his  huge  spurs  into  his  horse's  flanks, 
at  which  the  well-trained  animal,  used  to  his 
practised  touch,  reared  indignantly  on  its  hind  legs 
and  pawed  the  air,  then  started  off  in  a  wild  gallop, 
swift  as  the  rushing  wind.  Nor  did  they  pause 
until,  mounting  the  steep  zig-zag  path,  they  were 
both  safe  within  the  fortress  of  Orihuela. 

There  it  still  stands,  a  castle  of  defence,  crowned 
by  dark  bulwarks  on  a  mountain  chain,  an  outlook 
for  scores  of  miles  over  a  flat  country  towards 
Granada  and  the  sea.  Round  and  round  the  base 
winds  the  road  from  Alicante,  through  overhang- 
ing lanes,  under  palm-trees  and  embowering  citron 
woods,  broken  by  red  earthed  barrancas.  The 
town  itself  (Auri-welah)  is  still  very  Eastern,  with 
domed  church  and  castellated  towers,  the  whole 
district  with  great  tidal  rivers  cutting  through, 
fertile  beyond  words. 

As  the  day  fell,  and  the  sun  went  down  in  lemon- 
coloured  clouds,  Abdul-asis  approached,  thinking 
to  find  an  easy  conquest.  But  to  his  amazement 
the  walls  appeared  fully  garrisoned,  and  from  the 
keep  a  proud  flag  floated,  bearing  the  colours  of  the 
Goths. 

"How  is  this? "  said  the  son  of  Mousa.  " Is  it  a 
necromancy?     Or  have  these  men  risen  from  the 


■- 


THE  CHURCH    OF   SAN    ISIDORA. 
(Leon.) 


THE  MOORS  AT  SEVILLE  131 

earth?  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  Teodomir  flying 
alone,  a  page  riding  behind  him.  His  sons  are 
dead,  his  forces  scattered.  Who  are  these  but 
fiends  he  has  summoned  by  magic  to  his  aid?  " 

And  fear  fell  upon  him  as  he  gazed,  and  he  com- 
manded that  no  attack  be  ventured,  but  that  the 
camp  should  be  formed  at  the  base  of  the  rock 
until  morning. 

Upon  which  Teodomir,  who  was  looking  out, 
took  a  flag  of  truce,  fastened  it  to  a  lance,  put  a 
herald's  tabard  on  the  back  of  the  page  who  had 
fled  with  him,  and  a  high-crowned  hat  on  his  head, 
and  went  down  to  where  the  purple  tent  and  the 
Crescent  standard  marked  the  spot  where  Abdul- 
asis  was  to  be  found. 

"I  come,"  said  Teodomir,  in  a  tone  of  lofty 
courtesy,  raising  his  iron  vizor,  and  showing  the 
stern  face  of  a  warrior,  the  young  page  behind 
him,  proud  of  the  particoloured  dress,  and  sway- 
ing the  flag  of  truce  in  cadence  to  his  words,  "I 
come  as  a  Gothic  knight  into  your  presence,  most 
magnanimous  son  of  Mousa,  whom  men  call  'the 
merciful,'  to  treat  of  the  surrender  of  the  castle. 
As  you  see,  our  walls  are  fully  manned,  and  we 
have  food  for  a  lengthened  siege.  But  much  blood 
has  flowed.  I  have  lost  my  sons,  and  fain  would 
spare  the  lives  of  my  people.  Promise  that  we 
may  pass  unmolested,  and  when  the  rising  sun  tips 
the  circle  of  mountains  towards  the  east,  we  will 
surrender.  Otherwise,  we  will  fight  until  none 
are  left." 


132  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Abdul-asis,  young  in  craft  and  unsuspecting,  as 
became  the  poetic  quality  of  his  soul,  was  greatly 
struck  with  the  bold  words  of  the  veteran,  who 
stood  his  ground  so  valiantly  alone  against  an 
army.  The  castle,  too,  was  strong,  and  appeared 
amply  defended.  Generosity  in  this  case  was 
policy.  He  consented  gladly,  standing  forth 
alone,  a  crimson  caftan  thrown  over  his  armour, 
the  folds  of  his  turban  shading  his  massive  Egypt- 
ian features  and  his  lustrous  eyes.  To  the  articles 
of  capitulation,  he  hastened  to  affix  his  seal. 
Then  he  addressed  Teodomir: 

"Tell  me,  bold  Christian,"  said  he,  "you  who 
have  ventured  alone  into  the  Moorish  camp,  now 
that  we  are  friends,  of  what  force  is  the  garrison  of 
Orihuela?" 

A  grim  smile  spread  over  the  face  of  the  veteran. 
"Wait  and  see,"  was  his  answer.  "With  the 
morning  light  we  will  evacuate  the  place." 

As  the  sun  rises  in  glory  behind  the  eastern 
mountain  tips,  and  its  first  rays  strike  upon  the 
battlements,  Teodomir  appears,  followed  by  a 
motley  crowd  of  old  women,  greybeards,  and 
children  tottering  down  the  descent. 

Abdul-asis  waited  with  wondering  eyes  until 
they  had  reached  the  plain.  "Where,"  he  said, 
"O  Teodomir,  are  the  valiant  soldiers  who  lined 
the  walls,  and  have  so  well  maintained  the  honour 
of  the  Goths?" 

"Soldiers,"  answers  Teodomir;  "by  the  Lord, 


THE  MOORS  AT  SEVILLE  133 

I  have  none.  My  garrison  is  before  you.  These 
manned  the  walls.  My  page" — here  he  pointed 
to  the  stripling  disguised  in  the  habit  of  a  herald, 
the  heavy  coat  dragging  after  him  upon  the 
ground,  the  helmet  falling  over  his  face — "is  my 
herald,  guard,  and  army." 

Ere  Teodomir  had  finished  speaking,  a  great 
uproar  arose  among  the  Moors. 

"Tear  him  limb  from  limb,"  cry  the  sheikhs. 
"Cut  the  throat  of  the  Christian  dog.  Let  him 
not  live  who  deceives  the  Moslems  of  Islam!" 
But  with  a  stern  gesture  Abdul-asis  interposed: 
"  Let  no  man  dare  to  touch  the  Christian  knight,  " 
he  orders.  "By  righteous  fraud  he  has  defended 
his  castle.  I  command  that  the  rights  of  war  are 
granted  him." 

Then,  taking  Teodomir  by  the  hand  he  led  him 
to  his  tent,  and  ordered  wine  and  meat  to  be  served 
to  him  as  to  himself.  And  in  memory  of  this  de- 
fence the  provinces  of  Murcia  and  Valencia,  all 
through  the  Moorish  occupation,  were  known  as 
"the  Land  of  Tadmir"  or  "  Teodomir. " 

Thanks  to  the  rivalry  between  these  two  com- 
manders, Mousa  and  Tharyk,  Gothic  Spain  had 
fallen  to  the  Moors  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time:  the  banners  of  the  Crescent  waved  from 
Pelayo's  country  in  the  mountains  of  the  Asturias 
in  the  north,  to  Calpe  and  the  Pillars  of  Hercules 
in  the  south;  from  the  borders  of  Lusitania 
(Estremadura)  in  the  west,  to  the  coast  of  Tarra- 
gona and  Valencia  in  the  east ;  and  the  mighty  city 


134  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

of  Saragossa,  where  so  many  Christians  had  taken 
refuge,  also  yielded. 

At  length  a  summons  came  from  Sultan  Sulei- 
man, at  Damascus,  to  both  leaders,  to  appear  be- 
fore him,  to  render  an  account  of  their  conquests 
and  their  spoils,  as  well  as  to  settle  the  justice  of 
those  dissensions  which  raged  so  fiercely  between 
them. 

Before  he  left  Spain,  Mousa  addressed  a  letter  to 
his  son,  at  Seville.  "Son  of  my  heart,"  he  wrote, 
"may  Allah  guard  thee!  Thou  art  of  too  tender 
and  confiding  a  nature.  Listen  to  thy  father's 
words.  Avoid  all  treachery,  for,  being  in  thyself 
loyal,  thou  mayest  be  caught  by  it.  Trust  no  one 
who  counsels  it.  I  have  placed  with  thee  at  Se- 
ville, according  to  the  inexperience  of  thy  age, 
our  kinsman,  the  discreet  Ayub.  Listen  to  his 
counsels  in  all  things,  as  thou  wouldst  to  myself. 
Beware,  too,  0  my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love. 
As  yet  thy  heart  is  untouched.  May  Allah  so 
preserve  it!  Love  is  an  idle  passion,  which  en- 
feebles the  soul  and  blinds  the  judgment.  Love 
renders  the  mighty  weak,  and  makes  slaves  of 
princes.  Farewell.  May  Allah  guard  thee  and 
lengthen  thy  days." 


CHAPTER  X 
Abdul-asis  and   Hg'ilona 

HE  Alcazar  at  Seville  (each  Spanish 
city  has  its  Alcazar)  still  stands  in 
the  centre  of  the  city.  Not  the 
decorated  palace  we  see  it  now, 
rebuilt  by  the  Toledan  Zalubi  for  Prince  Ab- 
durrahman, and  afterwards  enlarged  and  beau- 
tified by  Don  Pedro  el  Cruel,  in  imitation  of 
the  Alhambra  of  Granada,  but  a  veritable  citadel, 
surrounded  by  low  tapia  walls,  on  the  verge  of  the 
tidal  current  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  flanked  by 
the  Gothic  tower  {Torre  del  or 6)  which  still  remains. 
Not  a  poetic  ruin,  this  Alcazar  like  the  Alham- 
bra, but  a  real  castle,  whole  and  entire,  ready  to 
receive,  to  this  day,  emirs  or  sultans,  kings,  queens, 
or  princes,  whenever  their  good  pleasure  calls  them 
to  Seville. 

Behind  lie  the  gardens,  flushed  with  roses, 
oleanders,  and  pomegranates,  approached  by 
stately  terraces  sweet  with  the  familiar  scent  of 
carnation,  violet,  and  jasmine.  A  delicious  plai- 
sance  formed  into  a  series  of  squares,  divided  by 
low  myrtle  hedges,  and  orange-lined  walls,  central 
fountains  bubbling  up  in  sheets  of  foam,   and 

135 


136  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

streams  and  runnels,  tanks  and  ponds,  along 
which  are  walks  paved  with  variegated  tiles. 

The  azahar  of  a  thousand  blossoms  is  in  the 
air,  golden  oranges  hang  tempting  on  the  stem, 
and  deeply  tinted  butterflies  course  each  other 
among  embowered  alleys,  leading  to  gaily  painted 
kiosks  and  pavilions  with  latticed  walls. 

Whether  Abdul-asis  exacted  the  tribute  de- 
manded by  the  Moorish  law  of  a  hundred  Christ- 
ian "virgins,  fifty  rich  and  fifty  poor,"  to  adorn 
his  harem,  I  cannot  say.  He  would  scarcely  have 
dared  openly  to  omit  it.  But  instead  of  choosing 
from  among  these  damsels  that  pleased  his  eye, 
and  selling  the  rest  as  slaves,  he  contented  him- 
self with  selecting  one,  and  dowered  such  others 
who  were  poor,  and  married  them  to  his  Moors. 

In  his  harem  he  also  maintained  many  Christian 
captives  as  hostages  for  the  land.  But  they  were 
treated  not  only  with  respect,  but  with  luxury, 
within  the  precincts  of  the  lovely  little  Patio  de  las 
Munecas — from  all  time  devoted  to  the  harem — 
the  loveliest  sheet  of  snowy  lace- work  ever  beheld. 
Not  a  speck  of  colour  on  the  pure  stone;  not  a 
badge  or  motto,  only  tiers  of  open  galleries,  latticed 
in  white. 

If  ever  these  dark  Eastern  beauties  return  to 
haunt  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  it  is  surely  in  this 
patio  their  dazzling  forms  will  linger ! 

Here  they  lived  a  pleasant  life,  plied  their 
fingers  in  rich  embroidery  copied  from  the  looms 
of  Damascus,  danced  ole  or  cachucha,  to  castanets, 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  137 

or  sang  to  lute  and  cither  those  wild  malaguenas, 
with  long  sad  notes. 

Many  were  even  contented  with  their  lot.  But 
all  followed  with  longing  eyes  the  graceful  form  of 
the  young  Emir,  putting  forth  their  charms  to 
attract  his  roving  eyes. 

"Beware,  O  my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love," 
had  written  Mousa  to  his  son.  "It  is  an  idle  pas- 
sion which  enfeebles  the  heart  and  blinds  the 
judgment." 

And  so  his  discreet  cousin  Ayub  continually 
repeated,  but,  spite  of  these  warnings,  Abdul-asis 
often  solaced  himself  in  the  company  of  the  fair, 
specially  among  the  Christian  captives,  who  were 
both  beautiful  and  well-educated.  Indeed,  it  was 
here  the  lonely  young  Emir  spent  his  happiest 
hours,  as  the  moon  mounted  into  the  realm  of  blue 
and  star  after  star  shone  out  to  be  doubled  in  the 
basins  of  the  fountains,  the  murmur  of  innumerable 
jets  and  streamlets  falling  on  the  ear. 

It  was  peace,  absolute  peace,  such  as  comes  to 
those  balancing  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  or  on 
desert  plains,  or  in  the  mystery  of  deep  forests,  or 
in  the  grave! 

One  night  as  his  eyes  range  unconsciously  into 
the  gloom,  he  is  startled  to  find  that  he  is  not 
alone. 

Deep  within  a  thicket  of  aloes  the  lines  of 
a  woman's  form  are  visible,  seated  upon  the 
ground. 


138  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Who  can  this  be?  "  he  asks  himself  with  breath- 
less haste.  "I  cannot  recall  having  seen  her  be- 
fore, either  in  the  harem  or  among  the  captives. " 

Yet  it  was  a  form,  once  seen,  not  to  be  forgotten. 
Her  dark  hair  hung  like  a  cloud  over  her  shoulders, 
and  her  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  upwards,  catch- 
ing a  ray  of  moonlight,  shone  out  like  stars. 

' '  Who  is  she?  "  And  Abdul-asis  rises  softly,  the 
better  to  observe  her.  "Yes,  she  is  matchless, 
but  that  sadness  is  not  natural.  Her  attitude, 
her  movements  are  languid  and  full  of  pain.  Her 
hands  lie  weary.  She  avoids  her  companions. 
What  can  it  mean?  Some  tale  of  deep  sorrow  is 
shut  up  in  her  soul.  She  is  under  my  roof  and  I 
am  ignorant  of  her  life.  I  will  at  once  address 
her." 

For  some  minutes  he  stood  silent,  his  eyes 
wandering  over  the  many  beauties  which  dis- 
closed themselves  to  his  gaze ;  but  to  his  astonish- 
ment, as  he  looked  closer,  he  perceived  from  the 
dark  olive  of  her  skin  that  the  stranger  must  be 
an  Egyptian  or  a  Moor. 

At  last,  moved  by  a  singular  emotion,  he 
addressed  her. 

"Who  are  you,  gentle  lady  ?  "  he  asked,  his  natur- 
ally sweet  voice  tuned  to  its  softest  accents.  "Why 
do  you  sit  alone?     Confide  to  me  your  grief. " 

"  Death  alone  can  end  it, "  was  her  reply. 

"  Nay, "  whispered  Abdul-asis,  in  a  voice  melting 
with  pity,  "fair  one,  seek  not  to  sacrifice  that  which 
Allah  has  made  so  perfect.     The  very  sense  of 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  139 

loveliness  is  yours.  Let  it  be  mine.  As  the 
houris  of  Paradise  dwell  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Great  Angel's  wings,  so,  lady,  shall  you  dwell 
under  mine.  I  am  Lord  of  Andalusia.  Power  is 
in  my  hands.  Speak  to  me,"  and  he  drew  near 
and  touched  the  tips  of  her  henna-stained  fingers. 
"Have  faith  in  me."  If  he  had  dared  he  would 
have  clasped  her  to  his  heart.  Never  had  the  veiled 
fair  ones  of  the  harem  moved  him  so. 

With  his  lustrous  eyes  fixed  on  hers  he  waited 
for  an  answer,  or  at  least  for  some  sign  that  she 
was  not  displeased.     None  came. 

Now  this  to  Abdul-asis  was  a  new  development 
of  woman  which  served  only  to  heighten  the  ardour 
of  his  sudden  passion.  Opposition  proverbially 
is  a  spur  to  love,  and  now  the  old  axiom  operated 
in  full  force  upon  one  who  had  never  known 
repulse. 

Again  he  assayed  to  clasp  her  delicate  fingers 
within  his  own  and  gently  draw  her  towards  him. 

"Light  of  my  life,"  he  murmured,  "speak!" 
In  vain — the  lady  replied  only  by  her  sobs.  Nor 
was  it  in  the  power  of  Abdul-asis  to  make  her 
speak. 

At  length — was  it  the  languid  beauty  of  the 
night,  the  power  of  the  moon,  great  in  the  annals 
of  unspoken  love,  or  some  occult  mystery  com- 
municated to  her  by  his  touch  ? — a  rosy  bloom  rose 
on  her  dark  cheeks  and,  withdrawing  her  hand 
from  his  ardent  clasp,  she  suddenly  unlocked  the 
mystery  of  her  coral  lips. 


140  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"I  am  Egilona,"  she  whispered,  as  if  she  feared 
to  confide  the  name  to  the  night  air ;  "  once  wife 
of  Don  Roderich  and  Queen  of  Spain." 

Words  cannot  paint  the  amazement  of  Abdul- 
asis.  That  the  beautiful  stranger,  known  to  have 
become  a  captive  after  the  defeat  of  the  Guadalete, 
should  be  dwelling  within  his  Alcazar,  unknown  to 
himself,  seems  too  astonishing  to  comprehend! 
That  he,  too,  unconsciously,  should  have  presumed 
to  approach  her  with  the  facile  dalliance  of  love 
grieves  his  generous  soul. 

All  which  he  endeavours  to  express  to  Egilona 
in  the  most  eloquent  language  he  can  command, 
while  he  bends  the  knee  before  her  as  a  vassal  to 
his  queen. 

Then  he  sighed.  Her  royal  position  placed  an 
insuperable  barrier  between  them.  Besides,  he 
felt  that  the  Caliph  at  Damascus  ought  to  be 
notified  at  once  of  the  possession  of  such  an 
illustrious  captive. 

"Could  he  do  so?"  he  asked  himself.  "Could 
he  run  the  risk  of  losing  her?  No!  a  thousand 
times  no!" 

Chance  or  fate  had  thrown  her  in  his  way.  She 
was  actually  a  slave  in  his  harem.  There  she 
should  remain  unless  she  herself  wished  other- 
wise. 

Fortunately  that  tiresome  person,  the  discreet 
Ayub,  knew  nothing  about  her.  His  reproaches, 
at  all  events,  were  not  to  be  encountered.  Possi- 
bly ! — ah !  possibly — a  tender  project  formed  itself 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  141 

in  his  brain.  Would  she,  the  wife  of  the  royal 
Goth,  consent  to  share  an  Emir's  throne? 

But  at  that  moment  he  was  too  much  overcome 
and  self-diffident  to  allow  himself  to  pursue  so 
roseate  a  dream. 

Calling  together  his  guards,  hidden  about  the 
garden,  but  ever  present  near  his  person,  Abdul- 
asis,  with  a  heart  torn  by  conflicting  emotions, 
conducted  Egilona  through  the  marble  courts  to 
the  Patio  de  las  Munecas. 

All  that  the  tenderest  love  could  dictate  was 
showered  upon  her  by  the  amorous  Emir.  She 
lived  in  the  royal  apartments,  and  a  special  train 
of  slaves,  eunuchs,  and  women  attended  upon  her. 
Before  the  gold-embroidered  draperies  of  her  door 
turbaned  guards  stood  day  and  night,  holding 
naked  scimitars.  Her  table  was  served  with  the 
same  luxury  as  that  of  a  sultana.  When  she 
went  abroad  into  the  streets  of  Seville  she  rode  on 
a  beautiful  palfrey,  caparisoned  with  silken  fringes, 
a  silver  bridle  and  stirrup,  and  a  bit  of  gold.  At 
the  sound  of  the  tinkling  bells  which  hung  about 
the  harness,  all  who  met  her  prostrated  themselves 
to  the  earth,  as  though  the  Emir  himself  were 
passing.  Even  the  muezzin,  ringing  out  the  hour 
of  prayer  from  the  galleries  of  the  Giralda,  was 
commanded  to  pronounce  a  blessing  on  her  head. 

Such  a  complete  change  in  the  life  of  Abdul- 
asis  could  not  but  arouse  the  wrath  of  the  discreet 
Ayub.     Numberless  were  the  times  he  tried  to 


i42  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


waylay  him,  always  ineffectually,  however,  for 
the  Emir  gave  orders  he  was  not  to  be  admitted. 

One  day  they  did  meet  in  the  outer  Patio  de  las 
Bandieras  (where  now  the  superb  portal  of  Don 
Pedro  blazes  in  the  sun),  just  as  Abdul-asis  was 
mounting  his  horse  for  the  chase. 

"Hold,  my  cousin  and  lord, "  cries  Ayub,  laying 
hold  of  his  bridle.  "Tarry  awhile,  I  pray  you, 
for  the  sake  of  our  kinship.  Am  I  a  dog,  that  you 
should  drive  me  with  kicks  and  imprecations  from 
your  door?" 

"Far  from  me  be  such  a  thought,"  replies 
Abdul-asis,  colouring.  "No  one  thinks  better 
of  you  than  I.  But,  my  cousin,  permit  me  now 
to  depart.  Another  time  we  will  pursue  the 
subject." 

"Bear  with  me  now  awhile  rather, "  cries  Ayub, 
detaining  him  by  the  folds  of  his  embroidered  robe. 
"  O  Abdul-asis,  remember  the  words  of  your  father : 
'Beware,  my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love.  It 
renders  the  mighty  weak  and  makes  slaves  of 
princes.'  " 

The  colour  on  the  face  of  the  Emir  deepened  into 
a  flush  of  wrath.  He  was  weary  of  hearing  these 
words  ever  repeated — yet  he  kept  silence. 

"Time  was,  my  cousin,"  continues  the  discreet 
Ayub,  "when  you  listened  to  my  words,  and 
all  went  well.  Now,  for  the  sake  of  a  strange 
woman,  a  slave,  a  captive,  you  are  bartering  your 
kingdom." 

At  this   coarse   allusion   to  the  royal   Egilona 


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ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  143 

Abdul-asis  could  scarcely  resist  the  temptation  of 
enlightening  Ayub  as  to  her  real  condition,  but  he 
forebore. 

"It  is  my  right,  0  Ayub,  to  love  whom  I 
choose,"  he  answers  coldly,  again  preparing  to 
mount  his  horse. 

Again  Ayub  arrests  him,  and,  forgetting  all 
respect  in  the  heat  of  his  argument,  fairly  shouts 
in  his  ear: 

"Yes,  0  son  of  the  great  Mousa,  but  not  like 
that  glorious  warrior.  Yes,  free  to  love  a  whole 
tribe  of  slaves  if  you  please,  gather  all  the  beauties 
from  the  corners  of  the  earth,  the  houris  of  Para- 
dise, if  you  can  get  them,  but  you  have  no  right 
to  sacrifice  your  throne  and  bring  ruin  on  your 
race. " 

To  this  torrent  of  reproach  Abdul-asis  answered 
not  a  word.  Steadying  by  his  touch  and  voice  the 
exasperated  horse,  which  had  now  become  restive 
under  the  delay,  as  if  sharing  in  the  irritation  of  his 
master,  Abdul-asis  surveyed  his  cousin  as  if  to 
demand  what  more  abuse  he  had  in  store — a  look 
and  manner  which  only  exasperated  Ayub  all  the 
more. 

"What  kind  of  a  sovereign  are  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, in  the  same  shrill  voice,  which  echoed 
round  the  court  and  could  not  fail  to  reach  the  ears 
of  the  guards  and  eunuchs,  however  unmoved  their 
countenances  might  remain,  "who  pretend  to 
have  no  time  to  administer  justice  in  the  Gate  as 
your    Moorish    ancestors    did?     Who   neglect    to 


144  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


review  your  troops  in  the  great  plains  about  the 
city  and  to  take  counsel  upon  the  affairs  of  state 
with  the  chiefs  and  counsellors  sent  hither  by  the 
Caliph?  Can  you  expect  that  he  will  continue 
you  as  governor,  when  the  report  of  your  acts 
comes  to  his  ears?  With  you  will  fall  your  father 
Mousa  and  your  brothers  in  Africa.  Who  is  this 
witch  who  has  overlooked  you?  Send  her  away,  or 
by  the  name  of  Allah  I  will  no  longer  screen  you ! " 

Even  the  discreet  Ayub  paused  here  for  lack  of 
breath,  and  the  young  Emir,  quickly  vaulting  into 
the  saddle,  rode  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  followed  by 
his  attendants. 

Yet,  spite  of  these  stinging  words,  his  passion 
for  Egilona  was  so  consuming,  that  although  he 
felt  their  truth  and  that  he  was  entering  upon  a 
career  full  of  danger,  he  could  neither  pause  before 
it  was  too  late,  nor  turn  back  altogether. 

Day  and  night  her  image  pursues  him.  Spite  of 
all  the  warnings  of  Ayub,  who,  having  once  broken 
the  ice,  never  ceases  his  threats  and  reproaches, 
every  hour  is  devoted  to  her.  In  the  shade  of 
the  Alcazar  gardens,  on  the  river  Guadalquivir, 
where  they  float  in  a  silver  barge  with  perfumed 
sails,  under  canopies  of  cloth  of  gold  and  silver; 
within  the  gaudy  halls,  sculptured  with  glowing 
panels  of  arabesque,  painted  roofs,  and  dazzling 
dados;  and  'n  the  Banos,  full  of  breezes  from  the 
river  and  currents  of  free  mountain  air,  planted 
with  such  shrubs  and  herbs  as  are  used  to  scent 
the  water,  he  is  ever  at  her  side. 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  145 


So  well  did  Egilona  love  the  Banos,  which  re- 
minded her  of  her  African  home,  that  she  was  wont 
to  say  to  her  favourite  slave,  the  same  dark- 
skinned  girl  from  Barbary  who  had  followed  her 
from  Toledo,  "When  I  am  dead,  Zora,  bury  me 
here." 

Yet  all  this  time  Egilona  had  never  opened  her 
heart  to  Abdul-asis.  Nor,  eager  as  he  was  to  know 
her  history,  had  he  ventured  further  to  urge  her,  so 
great  was  his  respect. 

At  length,  of  her  own  accord,  she  unveiled  the 
mystery. 

"Think  not,  O  noblest  of  Moors,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  so  soft  it  seemed  to  lull  the  agitation  of 
his  heart,  "that  I  am  insensible  to  your  devotion. 
I  dare  not  question  my  own  heart. " 

"My  love,  my  sultana!"  is  all  that  he  could 
answer,  casting  himself  on  the  earth  before  her. 
"Happy  destiny  that  I  was  born  to  be  your  slave ! " 

Egilona  at  once  raised  him,  and  entreated  him 
to  sit  beside  her. 

"No,  Abdul-asis,  it  is  not  within  the  power  of  a 
woman  to  resist  you.  My  heart  has  long  been 
yours.  But, "  and  she  sighed,  and  big  tears  gath- 
ered in  her  mild  eyes  and  dropped  one  by  one  upon 
the  hand  Abdul-asis  held  clasped  in  his,  "I  fear 
that  with  my  love  I  bring  you  an  evil  destiny. 
Remember  the  end  of  Roderich.  Can  I,  oh,  can  I 
sacrifice  you  to  the  chances  of  the  dark  fate  that 
pursues  all  who  love  me?" 


i46  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

The  face  of  the  Emir  grew  pale  as  he  gazed  at 
her.  Spite  of  himself,  an  icy  hand  seemed  to 
touch  his  heart  and  chill  it  into  stone.  These 
were  the  warnings  of  the  discreet  Ayub  from  her 
own  lips. 

Did  ruin  really  He  in  those  matchless  eyes? 
Was  that  pure  chiselled  face  indeed  the  messenger 
of  evil?  A  rising  wave  of  passion  cast  these 
sinister  forebodings  from  him,  and,  with  a  calm 
and  steady  voice,  he  answered: 

"But  why,  my  queen,  should  you,  the  wife  of 
Roderich,  be  answerable  for  his  doom?  It  is  said 
that  the  Gothic  king  tempted  the  infernal  powers 
when  he  forced  open  the  portals  of  the  Tower  of 
Hercules  and  let  forth  the  demons  confined  there 
upon  the  earth." 

"That  is  true,"  answered Egilona,  "and  the  rash 
act  was  doubtless  the  cause  of  his  death.  Still 
the  misfortunes  which  cling  to  me  seem  to  have 
led  on  to  his.  Had  he  not  loved  me  he  might 
have  married  the  daughter  of  Don  Julian. " 

"And  what  misfortunes  has  my  Egilona  en- 
countered? You  forget  I  know  not  who  you  are, 
or  how  you  came  here. " 

Then  she  recounted  to  him  her  royal  birth,  and 
how  from  childhood  she  had  been  affianced  to  the 
son  of  the  King  of  Tunis ;  the  history  of  the  storm 
which  threw  her  on  the  coast  of  Spain ;  the  Alcaide 
of  Denia  (now  Malaga) ,  upon  whom  she  had  made 
so  favourable  an  impression.  (Here  the  enamoured 
Emir  drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  147 

her  hand  as  she  lay  half -reclining  upon  a  pile  of 
gold- worked  cushions.) 

"Again  I  wore  the  bridal  robes,"  she  continued, 
"which  I  had  on  when  I  was  shipwrecked,  as  I 
awaited  Don  Roderich. " 

Here  was  a  pause.  Egilona  drops  her  eyes  and 
is  silent.  The  veins  on  the  forehead  of  Abdul- 
asis  suddenly  swell  with  agony.  Every  word  she 
utters  plunges  a  dagger  in  his  breast.  "This  was 
the  man  she  loved,"  he  tells  himself.  "By  the 
Prophet,  she  will  never  be  to  me  as  she  was  to 
him — dog  of  a  Christian ! " 

Meanwhile,  guessing  his  thoughts,  a  thousand 
blushes  suffuse  the  cheeks  of  poor  Egilona  and  dye 
her  olive  skin  with  a  ruddy  brilliance.  "What 
could  I  do  ?  "  she  asks  in  a  plaintive  voice.  ' '  I  had 
broken  through  the  bonds  of  Eastern  custom;  I 
had  despised  the  laws  of  the  harem;  I  had  stood 
face  to  face  with  man.  The  beauty  and  variety  of 
the  outer  world  was  known  to  me.  The  visits  of 
Don  Roderich " 

"Say  no  more,  my  queen!"  exclaims  the  gener- 
ous-hearted Abdul-asis,  ashamed  of  his  jealous 
weakness.  ' '  Could  any  one  approach  you  without 
love?     I  guess  the  conclusion. " 

When  the  discreet  Ayub  was  informed  of  the 
purpose  of  his  cousin  to  wed  the  Gothic  Queen, 
he  covered  his  head  and  sat  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 
In  this  unbecoming  guise  he  forced  himself  into 
the  presence  of  the  Emir. 


) 


148  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  cries,  "0  son  of  Mousa! 
Remember  the  words  of  your  great  father,  bravest 
among  the  chiefs  of  Damascus:  'Beware  of  love, 
my  son.     It  is  a  passion '  " 

"Enough,  enough,"  answers  Abdul-asis,  rising 
from  the  divan  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself, 
as  the  spectacle  his  cousin  presented  had  moved 
him  to  laughter,  "I  have  heard  these  words 
before." 

"And  you  will  hear  them  again,  0  son  of  my 
kinsman!  I  will  not  forsake  you,  by  Allah!  for 
his  sake,  nor  give  you  over  to  the  evil  genius 
that  possesses  you." 

But  the  wrongs  of  Ayub,  however  terrible, 
melted  as  wax  before  the  fierce  fire  of  the  Emir's 
love. 

His  nuptials  with  Egilona  were  celebrated  with 
great  pomp.  Nor  did  possession  cool  his  ardour. 
He  lived  but  for  her.  He  consulted  with  her  in  all 
the  affairs  of  his  government,  and  rejected  the 
counsels  of  the  discreet  though  most  troublesome 
cousin. 

For  a  time  no  evil  consequences  ensued,  and  the 
fears  of  Ayub  were  almost  lulled.  Yet  who  can 
resist  his  fate? 

Reposing  one  day  in  a  gorgeous  chamber  of  the 
Alcazar  (it  is  now  called  the  room  of  Maria  de 
Padilla,  but  it  was  then  known  as  the  Hall  of  the 
Sultana),  Egilona  drew  from  under  the  folds  of 
her  mantle  a  circlet  of  gold. 

"See,  love,"  said  she,  "the  crown  of  Roderich 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  149 

the  Goth.  Let  me  place  it  on  your  brow.  It  will 
become  you  well." 

Holding  up  as  she  spoke  a  steel  mirror  attached 
to  her  girdle  by  a  rope  of  pearls,  she  called  upon 
him  to  admire  the  majesty  of  his  appearance. 

With  a  sigh  he  looked  at  himself,  the  crown 
placed  on  the  folds  of  his  turban,  then  put  it  from 
him  and,  like  Caesar,  sighed  that  it  could  not  be  his. 

"My  love,"  says  Egilona,  replacing  it,  "the 
wearer  of  a  crown  is  a  sovereign  indeed.  Believe 
me,  the  Christians  are  right;  it  sanctifies  the  rule. " 

A  second  time,  like  Caesar,  Abdul-asis  put  the 
crown  from  him.  Yet  did  his  fingers  linger  on  the 
rim,  while  he  endeavoured  to  explain  to  Egilona 
that,  as  a  Moslem,  she  must  not  urge  him  to  go 
against  the  custom  of  his  nation. 

Still  Egilona  insists,  her  soft  fingers  clasped  in 
his,  her  tempting  lips  resting  on  his  own. 

"There  has  been  no  real  king  in  Spain,"  she 
urges,  "without  a  crown.  I  pray  you,  dear 
husband,  do  not  refuse  me." 

At  first  it  was  only  worn  in  private,  but  the  fact 
was  too  strange  not  to  be  noised  abroad.  The 
Moorish  damsels  in  attendance  on  Egilona  and  the 
guards  and  eunuchs  which  fill  an  Eastern  Court 
bore  the  news  from  mouth  to  mouth  as  a  strange 
wonderment. 

"The  Emir  not  only  has  wedded  a  Christian 
wife,  but  he  wears  the  Gothic  crown, "  is  whispered 
in  Seville.  "He  seeks  to  rule  us  as  Roderich  did. " 
To  this  was  added  by  the  many-tongued  voice  of 


150  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

calumny,  "that  not  only  Egilona  had  induced  him 
to  become  a  king,  but,  oh  horror  of  horrors,  that  he 
was  surely  a  Christian ! ' ' 

"By  the  head  of  the  Prophet,  I  swear  it  is  a  lie ! " 
cried  the  discreet  Ayub  to  the  ancient  counsellors 
Mousa  had  placed  about  his  son,  who,  in  their 
long  dark  robes,  gathered  round  him  in  dismay. 
"Not  a  day  passes  but  Abdul-asis  may  be  seen 
offering  up  his  prayers  in  the  Zeca,  his  face  turned 
towards  Mecca.  Ask  the  muezzin  at  the  Giralda 
if  it  be  not  so.  Five  times  a  day  does  he  prostrate 
himself;  and  as  to  purifying,  there  is  not  water 
enough  in  Seville  to  serve  him. " 

"But  the  crown,  most  powerful  vizier,  does  not 
the  Emir  wear  a  crown? 

At  this  Ayub,  feigning  a  sudden  fit  of  coughing, 
turned  aside.  "I  have  never  seen  it, "  he  answers 
at  last;  "I  swear  I  have  never  seen  it." 

"That  may  very  likely  be,"  is  the  answer; 
"but  it  is  well  known,  and  for  a  Moslem  to  wear  a 
Christian  crown  is  against  the  laws  of  the  Koran. 
Allah  Achbar!  we  have  spoken."  So,  covering 
their  faces  with  their  robes,  as  those  that  mourn 
the  dead,  they  departed  from  the  presence  of 
Ayub. 

Enemies  were  not  wanting  to  Abdul-asis  in 
Seville,  his  own,  and  those  who  hated  him  as 
the  son  of  the  famous  Mousa. 

These  wrote  hasty  letters  to  Damascus,  accusing 
him  not  only  of  detaining  captives  of  price,  but 
as  seeking  to  establish  the  Gothic  kingdom  by 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  151 

right  of  Egilona,  acknowledged  as  their  queen  by 
all  the  Christians. 

Now  Suleiman,  a  new  Caliph,  was  on  the  throne, 
and  it  so  happened  that  he  cherished  a  deep  hatred 
against  Mousa,  whom  he  had  divested  of  all  his 
high  commands  in  favour  of  the  One-Eyed,  who 
had  brought  rich  spoil  to  Damascus. 

The  Caliph  waited  for  no  proofs,  he  wanted 
none.  It  was  enough  that  Abdul-asis  was  accused, 
and  that  his  death  would  be  the  heaviest  punish- 
ment he  could  inflict  on  the  unfortunate  Mousa. 

When  the  fatal  scroll  was  laid  before  Ayub  the 
parchment  dropped  from  his  hand. 

"Allah  is  great ! "  cried  he,  as  soon  as  words  came 
to  him.  "It  is  known  of  all  men  I  have  taken  no 
part  in  my  cousin's  marriage;  rather  that  I  have 
always  opposed  it.  Beware,  said  I,  of  the  seduc- 
tions of  love.  Avoid  the  strange  woman  upon 
whose  face  is  written  an  evil  fate.  As  long  as  I 
could  I  counselled  him  well,  as  I  had  promised 
his  father.  Now  the  Caliph's  commands  must  be 
obeyed,  else  we  shall  all  lose  our  heads,  which  will 
not  keep  that  of  Abdul-asis  on  his  shoulders. " 

Thus  spoke  Ayub,  discreet  to  the  last.  As  long 
as  he  could  shield  the  Emir  he  had  done  so  loyally. 
Now  that  he  must  die  he  hastened  to  assist  at  his 
downfall. 

The  assassins  came  upon  them  as  they  sat  to- 
gether beneath  a  purple  awning,  drawn  from  tree 


152  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

to  tree, — four  naked  Nubians,  black  as  night, 
with  four  naked  scimitars.  So  lightly  fell  their 
bare  feet  as  they  glided  behind  them,  they  looked 
like  some  hideous  vision  of  the  night. 

Before  the  dawn  of  day,  Abdul-asis  and  Egilona 
had  risen,  disturbed  by  the  noise  of  the  populace 
without.  No  one  would  tell  them  what  it  meant. 
While  the  Emir  was  preparing  to  go  himself  to  the 
walls,  to  inquire  if  Egilona  had  returned  from 
praying  in  a  little  chapel  she  had  caused  to  be 
erected  within  the  limits  of  the  harem,  their  fate 
came  to  them.  Together  they  fell  under  the  cruel 
steel,  together  their  bodies  lay  exposed  upon  the 
stones. 

The  dogs  of  the  palace  would  have  mangled 
them,  but  that  some  friendly  hand  gathered  them 
up  and  interred  them  secretly  in  one  of  the  many 
squares  of  the  garden. 

Where  they  lie,  no  one  knows,  or  if  it  was  the 
the  discreet  Ayub  who  buried  them.  But  as  the 
time  of  the  year  comes  round  when  they  suffered, 
in  the  hour  preceding  dawn,  stifled  sighs  and 
groans  are  heard  in  the  angles  of  the  walls,  and  a 
universal  tremor  runs  through  the  space ;  although 
the  outer  air  is  still,  a  sudden  tempest  seems  to 
rustle,  the  fan  palms  quiver  as  if  shaken  by  un- 
seen hands,  the  pale-leaved  citrons  bow  their 
heads  to  a  mysterious  blast,  clouds  of  white 
blossoms  cover  the  earth  like  snow,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  yellow  jasmine  fly  as  if  with  wings. 

Then  a  clash  of  scimitars  breaks  the  silence,  the 


ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA  153 

shadowy  form  of  a  stately  lady  floats  across  the 
pavement,  closely  followed  by  the  figure  of  a  Moor, 
who  sighs  and  wrings  his  hands,  gliding  on  into 
the  thickness  of  the  woods,  when  a  dark  cloud 
gathers  and  they  disappear. 


CHAPTER  XI 
The  Moors  at  Cordoba 

T  Cordoba  we  come  upon  the  full 
splendour  of  the  Moors,  a  whole 
world  of  chivalry,  jonglerie,  magic, 
and  song,  from  the  old  East,  their 
home.  What  noble  devotion  to  their  race !  What 
unalterable  faith!  What  generous  courage  in  life, 
and  silent  constancy  in  death !  What  knowledge, 
could  we  but  grasp  it! 

We  know  but  what  is  left  to  us  of  their  outward 
life  in  Andalusia  and  Granada.  Their  exquisite 
sense  of  proportion  and  colour,  in  palaces  ver- 
milion walled  and  vocal  with  many  waters;  the 
massive  grandeur  of  barbicans  of  defence,  the 
sensuous  charm  of  lace-covered  chambers  and 
gigantic  leap  of  arch,  tower,  and  minaret,  destined 
to  live  as  their  mark  for  ever. 

Their  whole  existence  in  Spain  is  a  romance 
anomalous  but  dazzling;  a  nation  within  a 
nation,  never  amalgamated;  a  people  without 
a  country;  a  wave  of  the  great  Moslem  invasion 
cast  into  Europe;  a  brilliant  phantasmagoria, 
various  and  rare! 

The  Moors  took  no  solid  root  in  Spain  as  the 
154 


THE  MOORS  AT  CORDOBA  155 

Saxons  in  England  or  the  Arabs  in  Sicily,  but 
lived  as  an  exotic  race,  divided  from  the  Christians 
and  from  the  Jews  by  impassable  barriers  of  re- 
ligious customs  and  laws;  their  occupation  but  a 
long  chivalric  struggle  for  a  foothold  in  the  land 
they  had  gained  but  never  conquered. 

Not  all  the  fiery  valour  of  the  African  was  proof 
against  the  obstinate  resistance  of  the  Goths. 
Never  was  defence  more  complete !  In  the  midst 
of  apparent  victory  loomed  defeat ! 

A  new  era  opens  in  Cordoba,  with  its  million 
inhabitants  and  three  hundred  mosques,  in  the 
reign  of  the  Caliph  Abdurraman,  of  the  race  of  the 
Ummaya,  who  overthrew  the  rival  princes  sent 
by  the  Sultan  of  Damascus. 

After  him  from  a.d.  756  to  A.D.  1000,  ten  inde- 
pendent sultans  reigned  in  Cordoba,  their  wealth 
and  luxury  like  the  record  of  a  tale. 

Most  notable  among  these  were  three  other  Ab- 
durramans,  Hakin,  surnamed  "the  bookworm," 
Hisham,  and  Hazin,  not  to  forget  the  great  Sultan 
and  statesman  Almanzor,  a  Moorish  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  collecting  books  all  over  the  world,  and 
drawing  learned  men  to  his  court  even  from  remote 
Britain. 

While  the  north,  in  perpetual  warfare,  was 
plunged  in  the  darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages,  solid 
learning,  poetry,  and  elegant  literature  charmed 
the  minds  of  the  enlightened  Moors,  the  pioneers 
of  civilisation  in  Europe. 

At  Cordoba  Averroes,  the  great  Grecian  scholar, 


156  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

translated  and  expounded  Aristotle.  Ben  Zaid 
and  Abdulmander  wrote  histories  of  the  people 
at  Malaga.  Ibn  el  Baal  searched  the  mountains 
and  plains  to  perfect  a  knowledge  of  botany;  the 
Jew  Tudela  was  the  successor  of  Galen  and  Hippo- 
crates; Albucaris  is  remembered  as  a  notable 
surgeon,  some  of  whose  operations  coincide  with 
modern  practice;  and  Al  Rasi  and  his  school 
studied  chemistry  and  rhetoric. 

Not  only  at  Cordoba,  but  at  Seville,  and  later  at 
Granada,  colleges  and  schools  were  endowed,  and 
libraries  founded  in  which  the  higher  sciences  were 
taught,  which  drew  the  erudite  of  the  Moslem 
world  from  all  parts  of  the  globe,  and  became  the 
resort  of  Christian  students  anxious  to  instruct 
themselves  in  superior  knowledge. 

And  Christian  knights  came  also  to  perfect 
themselves  in  chivalric  fashions  and  martial 
exercises,  as  well  as  to  master  the  graceful  evo- 
lutions of  the  "tilt  of  reeds"  in  the  tourneys  of 
the  Moors. 

From  the  court  of  the  first  Abdurraman  came 
la  gaya  ciencia,  poetic  discussions  of  love  and 
chivalry  transplanted  later  to  the  Court  of 
Provence. 

In  architecture  no  building  that  ever  was  erected 
can  compare  to  the  elegance  of  his  Mesquita 
(come  down  to  us  almost  entire)  as  a  monument 
of  the  taste  and  culture  of  the  age.  The  most 
mystic  and  astounding  of  temples,  with  innumer- 
able aisles  of  double  horseshoe  arches,  suspended 


THE  MOORS  AT  CORDOBA  157 


like  ribbons  in  mid-air,  resting  on  pillars  of  jasper, 
pavonazzo,  porphyry,  and  verd  antique  crossing 
and  re-crossing  each  other  in  a  giddy  maze  of  im- 
measurable distances,  red,  yellow,  green,  and  white 
dazzling  the  eye  in  a  very  rainbow  of  colour! 

No  windows  are  visible,  and  the  light,  weird  and 
grim,  comes  as  from  a  cave  peopled  by  demons;  no 
central  space  at  all,  but  vistas  of  endless  arcades, 
which  for  a  time  the  eye  follows  assiduously,  then 
turns  confused,  and  the  brain  reels. 

Deep  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  temple  is  the 
throne  or  macsurah,  a  marvel  of  embroidered  stone, 
where  the  Sultan  takes  his  seat.  Here  the  Koran 
is  read  in  the  pale  light  of  scented  tapers  and 
torches,  and  those  ecstatic  visions  evoked  by  the 
Faithful  of  a  sensual  paradise  of  dark-haired 
houris. 

Opposite  is  the  Zeca,  or  holiest  of  holies,  turned 
towards  Mecca,  where  the  gorgeous  decorations  of 
the  East  blend  with  Byzantine  mosaics  of  vivid 
colours  on  a  gold  ground ;  a  most  lovely  shrine,  a 
great  marble  conch-shell  for  the  roof,  the  sides 
dazzling  with  burnished  gold,  and  round  and 
round,  deep  in  the  pavement,  the  footprints  of 
centuries  of  pilgrims. 

Such  is  the  Mesquita  of  Cordoba  in  our  day,  the 
desecrated  shelter  of  an  old  faith,  a  sanctuary 
rifled,  a  mystery  revealed! 

But  how  glorious  in  the  time  of  the  great  Ab- 
durraman  when  the  blaze  of  a  thousand  coloured 


158  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

lanterns,  fed  with  perfumed  oil,  played  like  gems 
upon  jewelled  surfaces,  vases,  and  censers  filled 
with  musk  and  attar,  making  the  air  heavy 
with  fragrance,  golden  candelabra  blazing  among 
mosaics,  crescent  banners  floating  beside  the 
almimbar  or  pulpit,  where  green-turbaned  Al- 
muedans  mount  to  intone  the  Selan,  as  the  Sultan 
emerges  from  a  subterranean  passage  leading 
from  the  Alcazar,  treading  on  Persian  carpets 
sown  with  jewels,  to  take  his  place  on  a  golden 
throne  within  the  macsurah,  surrounded  by 
swarthy  Africans,  bare-armed  Berbers,  helmeted 
knights  bristling  with  scimitars,  Numidians  with 
fringed  head-bands  and  golden  armlets,  superb 
Emirs,  wandering  Kalenders,  who  live  by  magic, 
the  dervish  of  the  desert,  and  hoary  Imaums  in 
full  gathered  robes. 

Then  the  talismanic  words  are  heard  from  the 
open  galleries  of  the  Giralda  from  which  the 
Muezzin  calls  to  daily  prayer :  ' '  There  is  no  God 
but  Allah,  and  Mahomet  is  his  prophet."  To  which 
the  prostrate  multitude  echoes:  "God  is  great," 
each  one  striking  the  pavement  with  his  forehead, 
and  the  sonorous  chant  answers,"  Amen." 

When  Abdurraman  reigned,  the  lonely  quarter 
beyond  the  Mesquita  swarmed  with  Alcazars, 
Bazars,  Cuartos,  Zacatines,  Banos,  and  Alamedas. 

Three  miles  to  the  north,  sheltered  under  the 
green  heights  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  rose  the 
plaisance  of  Medina-a-Zehra,  created  by  him,  a 


THE  MOORS  AT  CORDOBA  159 

congerie  of  kiosks  and  pavilions  entered  by  gates  of 
blue  and  yellow  porcelain,  overtopping  woods  of 
exotic  shrubs,  choice  plants,  and  rare  fruit-trees — 
here  the  Safary  peach  (nectarine)  was  first  ripened 
in  Europe — divided  by  the  fountains,  canals, 
and  fish-ponds  so  dear  to  the  Arab  fancy ;  twelve 
statues  in  pure  gold  set  with  precious  stones  spout- 
ing perfumed  water  within  a  patio  girt  in  by 
crystal  pillars. 

Hither  came  emirs,  ambassadors,  merchants, 
and  pilgrims,  all  agreed  that  nothing  could  be 
compared  to  these  matchless  gardens.  And  be- 
sides Ez-Zahra  there  were  other  monuments, 
which  have  all  disappeared  under  the  mantle  of 
green  turf  that  lines  the  banks  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir. Not  a  stone  left  of  the  pavilion  of  Flowers, 
of  Lovers,  and  of  Content,  the  palace  of  the  Dia- 
dem, evidently  destined  for  the  royal  jewels,  and 
another  called  after  the  city  of  Damascus. 

About  were  many  noble  streets  and  plazas  with 
baths  and  mosques,  for  next  to  the  mosque  stood 
the  bath  in  credit  among  the  Moslem,  and  as  such 
despised  by  the  Christians  to  that  point,  that  after 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  drove  the  Moors  out  of 
Spain,  their  grandson,  Philip  II.,  ordered  the 
destruction  of  all  public  baths  as  relics  of 
Mohammedanism. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Abdurraman,  Sxiltan  of  Cordoba 

JBDURRAMAN,  first  Sultan  of  Cor- 
doba, was  a  kindly  hearted  man, 
with  none  of  the  traditional  cruelty 
of  the  Arab,  eloquent  in  speech, 
and  of  a  quick  perception — quite  the  Caliph 
of  Eastern  tales.  Never  in  repose,  never  en- 
trusting the  care  of  his  kingdom  to  viziers,  in- 
trepid in  battle,  terrible  in  anger  and  intolerant 
of  opposition;  yet  ready  to  follow  the  biers  of  his 
subjects,  pray  over  the  dead,  and  even  to  mount 
the  pulpit  of  the  mosque  on  Fridays  and  address 
the  people. 

His  majestic  presence  and  dark,  commanding 
face,  lit  up  by  a  pair  of  penetrating  eyes,  shadowed 
by  thick  black  eyebrows,  inspired  fear  rather  than 
love  in  those  around  him,  and  though  it  was  said  of 
him  "he  never  forgot  a  friend,"  it  was  added, 
' '  nor  ever  forgave  an  enemy. ' ' 

As  he  passed  at  evening  alone  into  the  garden  of 
Ez-Zahra,  the  porphyry,  jasper,  and  marble  of  the 
pavement  absorbed  by  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky, 
all  his  attendants  fell  back.  His  brow  was  knit 
with  thought,  for  the  fame  of  the  victories  of 

160 


ABDURRAMAN,  SULTAN  OF  CORDOBA  161 


Charles  Martel  troubled  him  sorely.  He  knew 
that  in  knowledge  and  science  the  Frankish  king 
was  as  a  peasant  compared  to  him,  yet  his  name 
was  in  all  men's  mouths  as  the  conqueror  of  the 
Moors. 

Not  only  did  Charles  Martel,  after  the  victory  of 
Tours,  excel  him  in  renown,  but  the  remnant  of 
the  Goths,  driven  out  of  the  cities  of  Spain,  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  mountains  bordering  the  Bay 
of  Biscay,  among  the  caves  and  untrodden  defiles 
of  the  Asturias,  and,  small  and  insigDi'ficant  as 
they  were,  still  defied  him. 

Just  and  generous  in  character,  the  Sultan 
would  have  gladly  drawn  to  him  this  patriotic 
band  by  an  equitable  rule,  if  they  would  have 
submitted;  but  the  obstinate  endurance  of  the 
Spaniard  was  never  more  displayed  than  in  the 
fierce  determination  of  these  fugitives  never  to 
yield. 

Thinking  of  all  this,  Abdurraman  heaved  a  deep 
sigh.  His  soul  was  full  of  sympathy  for  the  brave 
Goths,  but,  as  Sultan,  he  was  bound  to  suppress 
what  was  in  fact  open  rebellion. 

Long  did  he  pace  slowly  up  and  down,  musing  in 
a  silence  broken  only  by  the  distant  click  of  the 
castanets  from  the  quarter  of  the  harem,  where  the 
light  of  coloured  lanterns  shone  out  athwart  huge 
branches  of  magnolia  and  pepper  trees. 

That  these  sounds  of  revelry  were  not  to  his 
taste  was  shown  by  the  disdainful  glance  he 
cast  in  that  direction,  and   a  certain  gathering 

Vol.  i — ii 


162  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

about  him  of  the  dark  caftan  which  hung  from 
his  shoulders. 

Turning  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  one  of  the 
many  illuminated  kiosks  standing  out  clear  in  the 
twilight,  he  paused,  as  if  expecting  some  one  to 
appear. 

Nor  did  he  wait  long;  a  dark  figure  emerged 
from  the  gloom,  the  features  of  the  face  so  dusky 
that  but  for  the  general  outline  of  the  figure  it 
might  have  passed  unseen  as  a  phantom  of  the 
night. 

"Mahoun, "  says  the  Caliph,  sharply,  as  the 
vizier  approached  and,  prostrating  himself  on  the 
earth,  awaited  his  commands,  "stand  up  and  tell 
me  what  tidings  from  the  north. " 

"By  the  Prophet,  0  Caliph,"  answers  Mahoun, 
crossing  his  arms  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  bending 
his  supple  body  in  a  deep  salaam,  "tidings  of 
many  colours — good  and  bad. " 

"Give  me  the  bad  first,  O  Vizier!  After  a 
storm  the  sun's  rays  shine  brightest.     Proceed. " 

"Don  Pelayo,  the  Goth,  son  of  the  Christian 
noble,  Dux  of  Cantabria,  murdered  by  his  kins- 
man," continued  the  vizier,  "or,  as  some  call 
him,  Pelagius — for  these  Gothic  dogs  much  affect 
Roman  names — the  leader  of  the  Christians,  has 
disappeared.  Nor  can  the  cunning  inquiries  of 
Kerim,  whom  in  your  wisdom  you  have  placed 
as  governor  over  these  newly  conquered  provinces, 
obtain  any  record  of  where  he  has  gone.  Some  say 
to  the  French  Court  to  ask  succour  for  the  rem- 


ABDURRAMAN,  SULTAN  OF  CORDOBA  163 

nant  who  still  cling  to  his  fortunes ;  others  that  he 
has  died  by  treachery,  or  fallen  in  fight.  So  con- 
stant were  these  rumours,  O  Caliph,  that  the 
Goths,  discouraged  by  his  long  absence,  had  fallen 
into  disunion ;  the  wisest  (and  they  are  few)  were 
willing  to  submit  to  the  rule  of  Kerim ;  the  greater 
part  (fools)  prepared  to  elect  the  Gothic  Infanta 
Onesinda,  his  sister,  as  queen — when  of  a  sudden, 
Pelayo  himself  returns,  and,  with  a  horde  of 
Christian  beggars  at  his  back,  raises  the  standard 
of  revolt  in  Galicia  near  Gijon. " 

"What!"  cries  the  Caliph,  suddenly  interested, 
"is  Pelayo  the  youth,  cousin  of  Don  Roderich, 
who  fought  at  the  battle  of  the  Guadalete  close 
to  his  chariot,  and  never  left  him  until  he  himself 
vanished  from  the  battlefield?  I  have  heard  of 
Pelayo.     He  is  of  royal  birth. " 

"The  same,  O  Caliph.  Grandson  of  King 
Chindavinto,  his  father,  murdered  by  that 
unclean  beast  Witica,  predecessor  of  Roderich. 
Pelayo  ends  the  line  of  Gothic  princes.  Kerim 
despises  him  as  a  despicable  barbarian  shut  up 
on  a  mountain,  where  his  followers  die  of  hunger ; 
they  have  no  food  but  herbs  and  honey  gathered 
in  the  rocks.     Let  not  my  Lord  regard  him. " 

"Call  you  this  good  news,  O  Mahoun?  A 
hero  is  ever  a  hero,  even  in  rags!  Though  he  is 
my  enemy,  I  respect  his  valour.  Had  Roderich 
fought  with  like  courage  in  the  defence  of  Spain, 
we  might  now  be  eating  dates  in  our  tents  under 
our    native    palms.     The    courage    of    the    chief 


164  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

represents  the  spirit  of  the  nation,  as  the  flash 
of  the  lightning  precedes  the  thunderbolt.  One 
cannot  scathe  without  the  other." 

"But,  O  Caliph  of  the  Faithful,"  interrupts  the 
vizier,  again  prostrating  himself  to  the  ground, 
"the  good  news  is  yet  untold.  Pelayo's  sister, 
Onesinda,  is  now  in  our  hands, — Kerim,  the 
Governor  of  Gijon,  has  captured  her." 

A  smile  of  satisfaction  overspread  the  Caliph's 
face.  Then,  as  other  thoughts  seemed  to  gather 
in  his  mind,  he  raised  his  hand  and  thoughtfully 
passed  it  across  the  thick  black  curls  of  his  beard. 

"Surely  all  courtesy  has  been  used  towards  this 
royal  lady?  I  would  rather  that  Kerim  had  shown 
his  skill  in  overcoming  men.  Do  Mussulmen  wage 
war  on  women  and  children?  I  know  Kerim  as  a 
valiant  leader  in  the  fight,  but  I  misdoubt  much 
his  courtesy  towards  this  daughter  of  the  Goths. 
Are  we  not  well-founded  enough  in  Spain  to  spare 
this  lady?" 

"Yes,  confined  within  the  strong  walls  of  your 
harem.  Make  her  your  sultana,  O  Caliph,  she 
will  be  free,  and,  subdued  by  the  wisdom  of  your 
lips,  will  bring  her  countrymen  with  her;  other- 
wise she  is  too  important  a  hostage  to  surrender. 
For  his  sister's  sake  Pelayo  himself  may  yield. " 

"Never,  if  I  know  him,"  exclaims  Abdurraman, 
"while  the  fountain  of  life  flows  within  his  veins — 
never !  Dishonour  not  the  noble  Goth  so  far.  To 
turn  a  Christian  maiden  into  a  slave  would  be 
honour,  for  a  Gothic  princess  a  sore  degradation. 


ABDURRAMAN,  SULTAN  OF  CORDOBA  165 


Mahoun,  I  want  no  sultana  to  share  my  throne. 
'  Beware  of  the  wiles  of  women,'  saith  the  sage.  By 
the  help  of  the  Prophet,  I  will  still  steer  clear. 
But  that  this  noble  lady  shall  have  cause  to  extol 
the  courtesy  of  the  Moslem  is  my  command. " 

"How  then  shall  we  deal  with  her?"  asks  the 
vizier  with  anxious  haste,  too  well  aware  of  the 
generous  nature  of  the  Caliph.  "If  Pelayo  lays 
down  his  arms,  the  Infanta  might  be  escorted  back 
in  safety  to  the  rocks  and  caverns  he  makes  his 
home,  but  if  he  still  raises  the  standard  of  revolt, 
a  bow-string  would  better  suit  the  lady's  throat. " 

"Silence,  slave,"  replies  Abdurraman  in  a  deep 
voice.  "Great  Allah!  Shall  we  degrade  our- 
selves to  make  success  depend  on  the  life  of  a 
woman?  Summon  her  here  at  once.  When  she 
arrives  in  Cordoba,  let  her  immediately  be  con- 
ducted to  my  harem.  Let  orders  be  given  for  her 
immediate  departure  from  Gijon  with  suitable 
attendants." 

"Oh,  justest  of  men  and  greatest  of  rulers," 
answers  the  vizier,  "permit  your  slave  yet  to 
speak  one  word.  These  infidels  must  be  reached 
through  their  women.  Leave,  I  pray  you, 
Onesinda  to  the  Governor  of  Gijon,  and  she  will 
be  bait  to  catch  her  brother  Pelayo. " 

"I  have  spoken,"  answers  Abdurraman,  haugh- 
tily, and  turned  away.  "Be  it  according  to  my 
commands." 

Deep  was  the  obeisance  with  which  this  order 
was  received,  but  the  astute  vizier  had  views  of 


1 66  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

his  own.  In  the  main  he  was  a  faithful  servant  of 
his  lord,  but  where  a  woman  was  concerned,  he 
deemed  it  no  crime  to  temper  obedience  with  in- 
terest. An  unbeliever!  the  sister  of  a  Goth!  what 
was  this  Onesinda  but  a  toy,  a  slave,  honoured  by 
a  glance  from  her  conqueror?  Had  the  Caliph 
commanded  her  immediate  execution  he  would 
willingly  have  obeyed,  but  to  bring  her  to  Cordoba 
after  what  he  knew  of  her  treatment  at  Gijon  was 
more  than  his  head  was  worth. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  Governor  of  Gijon 
was  his  friend,  and  that  Mahoun  knew  much  more 
about  Onesinda  than  he  intended  to  impart.  Her 
capture  had  been  a  cruel  stratagem,  and  at  this 
very  time  she  was  forcibly  lodged  in  the  harem  of 
Kerim. 

The  vizier  had  not  dared  altogether  to  conceal 
the  important  fact  of  her  capture  from  the  Sultan, 
but  that  she  should  reach  Cordoba  alive  and  tell 
the  tale  of  her  misfortunes,  was  not  at  all  his  in- 
tention. The  passion  Kerim  had  conceived  for  her 
was  well  known  to  Mahoun,  and  that  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  Moorish  slaves,  who  not  only  urged 
his  suit  by  threats  and  persuasion,  but  watched 
her  every  action.  If  Onesinda  did  not  yield  to  the 
desires  of  Kerim,  her  brother's  fate  was  certain, 
were  he  taken  dead  or  alive. 

On  Pelayo  rested  the  hope  of  the  fugitive  Goths. 
The  last  of  the  long  line  of  hereditary  princes,  all 
the  trust  of  the  conquered  lay  in  him.  That  this 
base  intrigue  should  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the 


ABDURRAMAN,  SULTAN  OF  CORDOBA  167 

Caliph  was  death  to  all  concerned.  Not  all  the 
bribes  offered  him  by  Kerim  in  rich  stuffs,  jewels, 
and  slaves,  could  blind  the  astute  vizier  to  the 
danger  of  his  position. 

"May  Allah  confound  Kerim  and  his  harem!" 
he  exclaimed  in  a  rage,  as  he  paced  the  gardens 
after  the  Sultan's  departure  until  late  into  the 
night,  his  silken  sandals  falling  lightly  on  the 
coloured  patterns  drawn  upon  the  walks.  "Why 
could  not  the  dark-skinned  beauties  of  Barbary 
content  him  without  meddling  with  the  pale-faced 
Goth?  Truly  the  flag  of  the  Crescent  has  tri- 
umphed over  the  Cross  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Spain;  but  it  is  not  wise  to  provoke  a  fallen 
people.  These  Goths  have  the  endurance  of  the 
camel  of  the  desert,  which  lives  long  without  food 
or  drink,  but  even  that  patient  animal  will  turn 
upon  his  driver  if  he  rains  down  blows  upon  him 
causelessly.  Better  let  the  infidels  starve  in  holes 
and  caverns  than  bring  them  down  into  the  plains, 
bent  on  a  desperate  revenge.  A  curse  on  Kerim! 
The  Sultan  forgets  nothing.  He  will  ask  for 
Onesinda.  What  in  the  name  of  Allah  am  I  to 
reply?" 


CHAPTER  XHI 


Onesinda  and  Rerim 


ERIM-EL-NOZIER,  the  Governor  of 
Gijon  in  Galicia,  is  a  Berber,  infi- 
nitely less  cultured  than  the  Moors, 
and  the  distance  from  the  capital 
at  Cordoba  has  made  him  almost  independent  of 
all  rule. 

Little  did  the  noble-minded  Caliph,  Abdurra- 
man,  guess  what  was  passing  at  this  moment  in  the 
remote  peninsula  at  Gijon,  sheltered  on  one  side  by 
the  dark  hill  of  Santa  Catalina,  on  the  other  ex- 
posed to  the  full  force  of  the  rollers  of  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  and  that  the  governor  he  had  appointed 
was  a  tyrant  who  knew  no  law  but  his  own  will. 

Kerim  is  not  a  warrior  to  please  a  lady's  eye. 
The  voluminous  folds  of  a  white  turban  rest  on  a 
forehead  bare  of  hair,  a  rough  and  matted  beard 
curls  on  his  chin  and  reaches  to  his  ears,  in  which 
hang  two  uncut  emeralds.  He  is  low  in  stature 
and  corpulent  in  person.  His  long  dark  arms  are 
bare,  ornamented  with  glittering  bangles,  his  body 
swathed  with  a  gaudily  striped  cloth  over  a  rich 
vest,  and  full  trousers  descend  to  his  feet.  Sudden 
and  abrupt  in  his  movements,  he  sits  uneasily 

168 


ONESINDA  AND  KERIM  169 

on  a  raised  dais  covered  with  skins,  a  drapery  of 
Eastern  silk  over  his  head.  A  strong  perfume  of 
attar  pervades  the  recess,  lined  with  divans,  at  the 
extremity  of  an  immense  Gothic  hall,  open  at  the 
opposite  end,  and  divided  into  separate  apart- 
ments by  Oriental  screens  and  tapestry. 

The  recent  conquests  in  the  North  had  given  the 
Moors  as  yet  no  time  to  erect  either  dwellings, 
mosques,  or  baths,  those  necessities  of  Eastern 
life,  and  they  were  fain  to  accept  the  rough 
habitations  and  castles  of  the  Goths  as  they  found 
them. 

Terrible  is  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  white 
against  the  tawny  sockets,  as  he  turns  them  full  on 
the  slender  form  before  him,  wrapped  in  an  em- 
broidered mantle,  held  in  the  strong  grasp  of  a 
Nubian  slave.  A  naked  scimitar  lies  on  the 
ground  and  the  shadow  of  a  mute  darkens  the 
curtained  entrance. 

Of  the  lady's  face  nothing  is  seen.  She  holds 
her  hands  clasped  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  repellent  visage  of  the  Berber. 

Taking  in  his  hand,  from  a  salver  placed  on  the 
ground,  one  of  the  jewelled  goblets  which  lay  on  it, 
and  filling  it  with  sherbet,  Kerim  rises  to  his  feet. 

"I  drink,"  he  says,  in  a  loud  jarring  voice,  "to 
the  success  of  the  Goths  and  of  Pelayo.  Will  you 
pledge  me,  Christian  lady?" 

No  answer  comes  from  the  veiled  figure,  but 
the  trembling  of  the  drapery  shows  that  she  is 
convulsed  with  fear. 


170  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Unhand  the  Infanta,"  says  Kerim  to  the 
Nubian,  "and  retire." 

Between  them  lay  the  scimitar,  catching  the 
light. 

"  Onesinda, "  and  Kerim  seizes  her  passive  hand, 
"listen!  Kerim  is  not  the  senseless  tyrant  you 
deem  him.  But  before  I  unfold  my  projects  to 
your  ear,  I  warn  you  to  take  heed.  You  are  my 
prisoner,  held  by  the  right  of  war.  A  motion  of 
my  hand  and  that  fair  skin  is  dyed  as  crimson  as 
the  petals  of  the  fiery  pomegranate  expanding  in 
the  heat  of  noon.  As  yet  you  have  refused  all 
speech  with  me.  Urge  me  not  too  far,  I  warn 
you." 

"Alas!"  answers  Onesinda,  speaking  with  quick 
breath,  as  she  tears  asunder  the  drapery  which  falls 
upon  her  face,  and  displays  an  ashy  countenance 
belying  her  bold  words,  "I  do  not  fear  death,  but 
infamy.  Now,  God  be  gracious  to  me,  for  the 
succour  of  man  is  vain."  As  she  spoke  she  drew 
herself  back  to  the  farthest  limit  of  the  curtained 
space  in  an  attitude,  not  of  resistance,  for  that  was 
useless,  but  as  one  unwilling  to  provoke  assault, 
yet  if  offered,  resolved  to  repel  it  to  the  utmost  of 
her  power. 

She  who,  were  her  brother  dead,  would  be 
proclaimed  by  the  small  remnant  of  her  people 
Queen  of  the  Goths,  was  fair  as  became  her  race 
and  of  good  proportions.  A  native  loftiness  in 
features  and  bearing  took  from  her  all  notion  of  the 
insipidity  which  attaches  itself  to  that  complexion ; 


ONESINDA  AND  KERIM  171 

her  eyes  were  blue,  untouched  by  the  unnatural 
glitter  so  loved  by  the  Moorish  women,  and  her 
profuse  flaxen  hair  fell  in  ringlets  about  her  neck, 
on  which  a  solid  gold  chain  and  heavy  medallion 
rested.  A  kirtle  over  a  vest,  open  at  the  throat,  of 
blue  taffetas  worked  in  coloured  silks,  formed  a 
loose  robe  lined  with  fur,  and  a  veil  of  silk,  falling 
at  the  back  of  her  neck,  concealed  the  snowy  skin 
of  her  neck  and  bosom  and  served  as  a  covering 
to  her  hair. 

"You  have  no  reason  to  fear  me,"  cries  Kerim, 
but  the  base  passion  which  looked  out  of  his  eyes 
gave  to  his  words  a  very  different  interpretation. 

"There  can  be  no  peace  between  us,"  answers 
Onesinda,  trembling  in  every  limb,  as  she  presses 
closer  and  closer  to  the  wooden  pillars  at  her  back. 
"Had  your  purpose  been  honest,  you  would  not 
have  captured  me  treacherously  and  kept  me  here. 
Pelayo's  sister  will  never  yield  to  force.  To  plant 
that  steel  in  my  breast,"  pointing  to  the  richly 
set  dagger  he  wore  at  his  waist,  "is  the  only  service 
you  can  do  me." 

"But  you  must  listen,"  retorts  Kerim,  drawing 
so  near  his  hot  breath  fell  on  her  cheek;  "for  the 
sake  of  Pelayo.  To  further  the  good  of  this  grow- 
ing kingdom  of  the  Moors,  I  desire  to  ally  myself 
with  the  royal  blood  of  Spain  and  rally  about  me 
those  Christians  who  still  gather  round  your 
brother.  The  throne  of  Cordoba  is  too  distant, 
the  empire  too  vast.  Abdurraman  needs  able 
lieutenants.     Kerim  will  free  him  of  these  northern 


172  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


provinces  and  govern  them  himself.  It  is  a  feeble 
mind  which  waits  for  Fortune's  wheel,  the  brave 
must  seize  it,  and  turn  it  for  themselves.  Under 
me  the  sons  of  the  Goths  shall  serve,  Alonso  and 
Friula  and  the  rest,  Pelayo  above  all,  next  to  my- 
self, for  the  fair  Onesinda's  sake!  Again  I  ask 
you,  Christian  Princess,  will  you  pledge  me  to  our 
success?"  And  his  hand  again  seizes  the  goblet, 
which  he  holds  to  her  lips. 

Had  Onesinda  seen  the  look  which  accompanied 
this  gesture  she  would  have  sunk  insensible  to  the 
earth,  so  revolting  was  the  effect  of  love  in  such  a 
form,  so  savage  and  brutal  the  nature;  but  her 
head  had  fallen  on  her  bosom,  and  her  closed  eyes 
and  deadly  pallor  disconcerted  Kerim,  who,  with 
widely  opened  eyes,  contemplated  his  victim  in 
doubt  if  she  were  not  already  dead.  A  slight 
trembling  of  the  eyelids  and  a  convulsive  motion 
about  the  lips  relieved  him  of  this  fear.  With 
the  utmost  care  he  placed  her  on  a  divan,  and 
pouring  into  her  white  lips  some  of  the  sherbet 
contained  in  the  goblet,  anxiously  watched  the 
efforts  which  Nature  made  to  revive  her.  As  she 
heaved  a  deep  sigh,  she  opened  her  eyes,  then 
closed  them  again  with  a  shrill  cry  at  the  sight  of 
the  black  visage  of  Kerim  bent  over  her. 

"Listen,"  he  says  again,  in  a  much  gentler 
voice.  He  understood  that  excessive  fear  or  a 
too  great  repugnance  would  be  fatal,  therefore  he 
curbed  his  passion. 

"If  you  will  consent  to  be  my  sultana,  Pelayo 


THF.    CHARLEMAGNE    OF    EPIC. 
From  the  painting  by  Albrecht  Iliirer. 


ONESINDA  AND  KERIM  173 

shall  be  my  second  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Asturias. 
If  not" — and,  spite  of  himself,  such  a  look  of 
ferocity  came  over  his  face  that  Onesinda  shrank 
from  him  with  inexpressible  disgust — "the  blood 
of  every  knight  I  have  taken  shall  water  the  earth 
of  Gijon,  specially  that  of  Pelayo,  who  shall  expire 
in  unknown  torments.  Choose,  Christian,  be- 
tween life  with  me,  or  certain  ruin  to  your  race. " 

As  he  awaits  her  answer,  Kerim  seats  himself  by 
her  side.  With  a  smile  on  his  dark  face  he  strove 
to  take  her  hand.  In  this  gentler  mood,  he 
seemed  to  Onesinda  a  thousand  times  more 
loathsome  than  in  his  fiercest  moments. 

One  glance  was  enough.  Gathering  her  robes 
about  her,  she  darts  to  the  farthest  extremity  of 
the  vast  hall. 

"Moor,"  she  cries,  and  the  horror  she  felt  was 
expressed  in  her  features,  "for  me  death  has  no 
terrors.  For  my  brother,  I  do  not  believe  you. 
Can  the  eagle  nest  with  the  vulture?  the  dove  with 
the  serpent?  It  is  but  a  cruel  wile  to  deceive 
me." 

"I  swear  it,  lady,  by  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet. 
Think  well  before  you  take  your  own  life  and  that 
of  those  who  who  are  dear  to  you."  He  paused, 
and  the  unhappy  Onesinda  felt  all  the  agony  of  her 
position.  To  allow  this  hideous  African  to  ap- 
proach her  was  to  her  a  fate  so  horrible  that  flesh 
and  blood  rose  up  in  revolt  against  it.  To  open 
the  possible  chance  of  success  to  Pelayo  and  his 
followers  by  the  sacrifice  of  herself  is,  as  a  daughter 


174  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

of  the  Goths,  her  duty,  did  she  believe  his  words 
to  be  sincere. 

Looking  into  his  dark  face,  what  assurance  had 
she?  In  his  cruel  eyes?  In  those  full  red  lips, 
cutting  like  blood  athwart  the  blackness  of  his 
beard?  It  is  the  countenance  of  a  savage.  Not 
a  generous  quality  could  dwell  under  such  a  mask. 
No,  there  is  nothing  in  the  hard  nature  of  this 
African  on  which  to  form  a  hope!  And  yet  her 
brother's  life,  if  he  speaks  truly,  hangs  on  his  will. 
She  had  no  means  to  prove  his  words.  Pelayo  is 
absent,  some  said  already  dead.  Was  this  dark 
treachery  towards  his  Sultan  true?  Or  rather  is  it 
not  some  fiendish  scheme  to  entrap  the  last  rem- 
nant of  the  Goths  and  raise  himself  to  power  and 
favour  with  Abdurraman? 

Bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  she  casts  herself 
upon  the  ground  and  fixes  on  him  her  pale  blue 
eyes. 

"Alas!  you  know  not  the  heart  of  woman  to 
make  such  a  proposal.  To  invoke  your  pity," 
and  her  voice  trembles,  "would  be  as  useless  as  it 
is  mean.  Help  the  noble  sons  of  the  land,  but 
insist  not  on  such  a  sacrifice.  By  the  memory  of 
your  father,  by  the  bones  of  your  chiefs,  seek  not 
an  end  so  wicked. " 

Unmoved,  Kerim  contemplates  her,  a  smile  of 
triumph  on  his  dark  face. 

"It  is  your  turn  now  to  supplicate,  proud  In- 
fanta, mine  to  deny.  Either  you  comply,  or 
every  Moslem  soldier  in  the  citadel  of  Gijon  shall 


CNESINDA  AND  KERIM  175 

hunt  the  Goths  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
Asturias  like  vermin.  Reflect  ere  you  decide.  I 
swear  by  the  Holy  Caaba  I  speak  truth. " 

With  a  menacing  gesture  he  departed,  leaving 
Onesinda  prostrate  on  the  ground  and  the  Moorish 
slaves  returned  to  bear  her  into  the  dark  grove 
where  the  harem  stood  fronting  the  ever-beating 
sea  that  washes  the  iron-bound  coast  which  girds 
the  north  of  Spain. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Tragic  DeatH  of  Onesinda 


HE  Plaza  of  Gijon  swarms  with  a 
motley  crowd.  The  news  of  some 
great  event  to  take  place  has 
spread  abroad  and  brought  down 
peasants  from  the  distant  mountain-tops,  clad 
in  primitive  coverings  of  skins,  and  the  thick-set 
natives  of  Galicia  from  their  groves  of  wide-branch- 
ing oaks  and  thick  copse  wood,  too  often  stained 
with  blood  in  the  fierce  encounters  between  Mos- 
lem and  Christian. 

Townsmen  there  are,  in  coarse  hempen  gar- 
ments, and  artificers  from  the  lowly  dwellings  of 
Gijon,  mixed  with  mounted  groups  of  naked  Nu- 
bians, as  black  as  night;  Bedouins  carrying  long 
lances  and  wattled  shields;  Berbers  and  Kurds  on 
foot  among  the  crowd,  casting  looks  of  defiance  on 
the  sons  of  the  soil,  easily  recognised  by  the  fair- 
ness of  their  faces  and  long  auburn  hair,  grouped 
about  native  musicians  singing  wild  melodies  to 
the  click  of  the  castanets;  Moorish  knights  in 
the  light  armour  which  contrasts  so  favourably 
with  the  heavy  accoutrements  of  the  West — an  in- 
distinguishable rabble  of  the  conquered  and  the 

176 


TRAGIC  DEATH  OF  ONESINDA        177 

conquerors,  remarkable  for  nothing  but  the  con- 
tentious and  sullen  spirit  in  which  the  Moslem 
ousts  the  Christian  at  all  points. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  rises  a  gaudy  pavilion 
formed  of  sheets  of  the  brightest  silk,  scarlet, 
yellow,  blue,  and  orange,  the  tent-poles  and  pillars 
glittering  with  tiny  flags,  before  which  the  astound- 
ing clamour  of  bands  of  Eastern  musicians  raise 
martial  echoes.  Within,  visible  through  the  par- 
tially withdrawn  curtains,  is  placed  a  throne  with 
such  magnificence  as  the  limited  means  permit. 

Planted  in  front  the  standard  of  Kerim  floats 
heavily  in  the  breeze,  this  Arab  of  the  desert  pre- 
tending to  no  distinction  but  the  Star  and  the  Cres- 
cent, the  emblems  of  his  faith.  Horsemen  and 
foot-soldiers  are  ranged  on  either  side,  and  banners 
and  pennons  are  displayed  by  each  Moorish 
knight  or  captain  before  his  own  tent,  dazzling 
with  the  flash  of  splendid  accoutrements  and 
gorgeous  display  of  brocade  and  tossing  plumes, 
fluttering  to  the  sound  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
shrill- voiced  pipes,  recalling  to  the  Arabs  the 
deserts  of  their  home. 

A  mass  of  dismounted  cavalry  is  stationed  before 
the  pavilion  on  which  all  eyes  are  turned,  each 
Moslem  erect  by  the  side  of  his  gaily  draped 
charger,  until,  at  a  shrill  cry,  surmounting  even  the 
din  of  the  music,  each  man  vaults  into  the  saddle 
and  spurs  forward  towards  a  cloud  of  dust  an- 
nouncing the  arrival  of  Kerim  surrounded  by  his 
Ethiopian  bodyguard. 


178  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

At  full  gallop  they  approach,  bristling  with 
spears  and  brandishing  their  scimitars,  disposing 
themselves  in  a  semicircle  which  leaves  Kerim 
alone,  so  resplendent  with  steel,  feathers,  and  gems 
that,  as  the  sun  shines  down  upon  him,  he  looks 
like  a  statue  of  light. 

The  grim  forms  and  wild  faces  of  the  Africans, 
tossing  their  arms  in  every  direction  with  savage 
shouts,  reining  up  their  horses  but  a  hair's-breadth 
from  the  edge  of  the  crowd  of  spectators — who, 
uttering  piercing  screams,  rush  backwards  upon 
those  behind,  who  in  their  turn  lift  up  their  voices 
in  screams  of  utmost  terror — create  such  a  scene 
of  noise  and  confusion  that  a  white  silk  litter  borne 
by  slaves,  round  whose  arms  and  legs  are  bound  rich 
bangles  and  bracelets,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  veiled 
women  in  snowy  garments,  is  scarcely  noticed. 

Yet  a  group  of  dark-robed  Goths  have  marked 
it,  and  the  sadness  of  their  faces  and  their  looks 
of  shame  and  sorrow  show  how  abhorrent  to  them 
is  this  Eastern  pageant  and  its  cause.  For  who 
has  not  guessed  the  occasion  of  these  rejoicings? 
Onesinda,  for  the  sake  of  her  people,  has  con- 
sented to  become  the  bride  of  Kerim. 

Nor  is  she  and  her  countrymen  around  her, 
to  whom,  through  the  light  lattice  of  the  litter, 
she  is  plainly  visible,  without  hope  that  Pelayo,  if 
yet  alive,  may  have  planned  a  rescue.  But  in  the 
face  of  such  an  array  of  forces,  called  out  purposely 
by  Kerim,  it  would  be  a  mad  and  senseless  sacri- 
fice of  life. 


TRAGIC  DEATH  OF  ONESINDA         179 

The  agony  of  mind  of  Onesinda  is  not  to  be 
described.  Did  he  indeed  appear,  what  would 
Pelayo  think  of  her?  Would  he  understand  the 
amount  of  the  sacrifice?  To  become  a  vile  and 
nameless  thing?  To  submit  to  this  crowning  out- 
rage of  the  Moor,  with  no  power  to  whisper  into 
his  ear  the  sacredness  of  her  motive? 

Alas !  poor  Onesinda,  she  is  of  too  gentle  a  nature 
to  battle  with  such  a  fate!  So  colourless  has  she 
become,  her  face  is  scarcely  visible  among  the 
silken  cushions  of  the  litter  as  she  breathlessly 
scans  the  assembled  crowd. 

A  wild  hope  seizes  her.  May  not  Alonso  or 
Friula,  if  Pelayo  is  away,  be  present?  Some  val- 
iant ally  or  devoted  follower  still  faithful  to  her? 
Some  pitying  Goth  with  a  soul  for  her  distress? 
At  least  one  by  his  look  to  remind  her  that  he  is 
there? 

Nothing !  She  sees  the  threatening  faces  of  the 
Moors,  she  hears  their  muttered  curses,  she  beholds 
their  contemptuous  gestures  as  they  point  at  her. 
Do  they  believe  she  is  a  willing  victim? 

And  now  Kerim  has  dismounted  from  his 
charger;  a  tall  white  turban  is  set  upon  his  head, 
crowned  with  a  spiral  diadem,  in  which  a  ruby 
crescent  blazes,  surrounded  by  drops  of  pearls;  a 
white  robe,  sown  with  jewels,  clothes  his  limbs, 
held  up  by  a  golden  sash  worked  with  gems,  in 
which  the  blade  of  a  small  dagger  rests,  incrusted 
with  precious  stones,  of  so  fine  a  temper  one  touch 
is  sufficient  to  cut  the  thread  of  life. 


180  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Followed  by  his  guards,  he  follows  the  litter 
towards  the  pavilion,  surrounded  by  a  phalanx  of 
sheikhs  and  alcaides.  And  as  he  approaches  the 
litter  the  drapery  is  drawn  aside,  the  clash  of  dis- 
cordant music  strikes  up,  and  the  voice  of  the 
Imaum  chants  Allah  Akbar. 

The  moment  is  come;  Onesinda  must  descend. 
A  look  of  mingled  triumph  and  love  lights  up 
Kerim's  swarthy  face  and  brings  out  the  whiteness 
of  his  eyes  into  a  revolting  prominence.  Already 
his  naked  arms,  glittering  with  bracelets,  are 
stretched  out  to  clasp  his  bride,  already  the  soft 
aroma  of  her  presence  comes  wafting  to  his  senses 
like  spicy  perfumes  of  paradise,  when,  by  a  deft  and 
sudden  movement,  breaking  from  the  strong  arms 
which  bear  her  up,  Onesinda  seizes  the  dagger 
which  lies  beneath  his  sash  and  with  desperate 
courage  plunges  it  in  her  breast. 

With  frantic  haste  Kerim  tears  it  from  the 
wound,  but  her  life-blood  follows  it.  Clasping  her 
in  his  arms,  he  gazes  on  her  face.  Has  death  come 
to  her  instantly?  Her  eyes  are  closed,  yet  a  faint 
flush  is  still  upon  her  cheek.  Then  the  lids  slowly 
rise,  but  the  orbs  are  fixed,  and  glazed.  Gradually 
the  flush  vanishes  and  gives  place  to  the  pallid  hue 
of  death! 

Ere  the  poor  remains  of  the  Gothic  maiden  can 
be  borne  away,  a  great  clattering  of  horses'  feet  is 
heard  advancing ;  a  Moslem  herald  gallops  forward, 
followed  by  trumpeters  and  men-at-arms,  and 
several  knights,  who  ride  into  the  plaza.  After  a 


TRAGIC  DEATH  OF  ONESINDA        181 


flourish  of  trumpets  and  due  recital  and  summon- 
ing of  Kerim,  Governor  of  Gijon,  to  listen,  he  is 
commanded,  in  the  name  of  the  redoubtable 
Sultan  Abdurraman,  to  appear  without  delay  at 
Cordoba,  together  with  his  Christian  captive, 
Onesinda,  sister  of  the  royal  Goth,  known  as 
Pelayo,  Dux  of  Cantabria. 


CHAPTER  XV 


Pelayo  Proclaimed  King  by  tHe  Goths 


0  those  who  have  not  visited  the 
north  of  Spain,  the  grandeur  of  the 
dark  chain  of  the  Asturian  moun- 
tains rising  sheer  out  of  the  plains 
of  Leon  and  Lugo  can  hardly  be  imagined. 
The  change  is  so  abrupt,  the  aspect  so  dark 
and  threatening  of  frowning  defiles,  deeply  scored 
precipices,  and  pointed  summits  heavy  with  mist. 
Here  winter  lingers  into  latest  spring  and  the 
tardy  summer  soon  retreats  before  the  grey  and 
deathlike  hue  which  clothes  the  rocks  and  narrows 
inch  by  inch  with  the  green  mantle  which  sun- 
shine brings. 

This  is  the  true  Iberia,  the  cradle  of  the  race,  the 
title  borne  by  the  eldest  born  of  Spain,  the  strong- 
hold which  has  held  out  last  against  all  conquerors. 
The  Romans  left  their  mark  at  Gijon;  in  the  south 
the  Moors  stamped  the  soil  with  their  lineaments; 
in  the  east,  Catalonia  formed  a  separate  kingdom, 
with  laws  and  customs;  Navarre,  with  its  ancient 
line  of  kings,  raised  Alpine  barriers.  But  the 
mountain  crests  are  free,  and  those  deep  cavernous 

182 


PELAYO  PROCLAIMED  KING  183 

recesses  which  cut  the  rocks  resound  only  to  the 
shrill  cry  of  the  eagle  or  the  bleat  of  the  wild  deer. 

Full  in  the  front  of  a  stupendous  face  of  rock, 
facing  east,  the  mouth  of  a  deep  cave  opens;  the 
narrow  track  which  leads  to  it  ends  here,  Nature 
herself  forbids  further  progress.  Piles,  avalanches 
rather,  of  black  boulders,  the  spittle  and  waste  of 
mountains  shaken  by  earthquakes  in  bygone  ages, 
have  fallen  from  above,  and,  smoothed  by  time  to 
dull  surfaces  of  greys  and  greens,  guard  its  opening, 
shrouded  by  a  feathery  veil  of  thorn,  ivy,  and  wild 
trailing  plants  which  love  the  shade. 

From  within  the  cave  a  transparent  rivulet 
murmurs  forth  in  a  bed  of  coloured  pebbles  to  meet 
the  sun  and  join  its  feeble  ripple  to  the  louder 
sound  of  other  waters  flowing  from  the  gorge 
above. 

In  front  the  grass  spreads  soft  and  verdant; 
cups  of  the  early  crocuses  peep  out,  lilac  and  white, 
and  dark  purple  violets  nestle  under  dry  leaves, 
filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  A  few  scraggy 
beech-trees  turn  their  white  trunks  outwards,  the 
roots  deeply  imbedded  in  the  rocks,  and  clumps 
of  low  firs  and  juniper  follow  the  almost  imper- 
ceptible track  which  leads  onwards  to  remoter 
glens. 

Slowly  mounting  from  below,  a  little  band  of 
Goths,  clad  in  the  homespun  jerkins  which  dis- 
tinguish them  at  once  from  their  gaudily  attired 
conquerors,  ascend  the  path,  stepping  from  rock 


1 84  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

to  rock.  The  dry  leaves  of  winter  rustle  beneath 
their  feet  as  they  pass  up  under  the  gnarled  boughs 
of  scraggy  oaks. 

Carefully  the  foremost  ones  plant  their  steps  up- 
on the  stones,  as  they  bear  upon  a  crossed  frame 
the  body  of  Onesinda,  which  the  Christians  of 
Gijon  secured  in  the  confusion  following  her  death 
and  the  arrival  of  the  herald  summoning  Kerim 
to  Cordoba. 

A  dark  pall  covers  her,  and  so  slight  and  fragile 
is  her  form  that  the  outline  of  her  figure  scarcely 
raises  the  folds. 

Behind  appears  the  stalwart  figure  of  Pelayo, 
wearing  the  Gothic  cap  of  steel  and  armed  with 
the  simple  accoutrements  of  a  Dacian  warrior. 

Not  a  tear  moistens  his  eye.  His  face  is  set  and 
white,  marked  by  the  vicissitudes  and  hardships  of 
his  life;  a  countenance  on  which  Nature  has  set 
her  seal  as  a  leader  of  men — the  sole  remaining 
link  of  the  early  Gothic  kings. 

Behind  him  follow  three  other  chiefs,  who  have 
joined  in  an  eternal  hatred  to  the  Moor,  Friula, 
Teudis,  and  Recesvinto. 

A  sorrowful  procession,  fitly  set  in  the  impene- 
trable wilds  which  surround  them,  solemn  as 
themselves,  who  want  no  spur  to  their  resolve  to 
sell  their  blood  dear  in  the  cause  of  their  country. 
But  if  they  did,  surely  the  slight  form  they  are 
bearing,  so  cruelly  sacrificed  to  the  Moor,  is 
enough  to  stir  up  their  souls  to  never-ending 
vengeance. 


PELAYO  PROCLAIMED  KING  185 

Silently  the  bearers  rest  the  bier  upon  the  green 
platform  of  grass  before  the  cave. 

Then  Pelayo  advances  to  the  front,  and  putting 
back  with  his  hands  the  thickly  trailing  thorns  that 
impede  the  opening,  the  bier  is  placed  within  under 
the  shadows  of  an  overlapping  stone. 

Not  a  word  has  been  spoken,  but  many  streams 
murmur  as  they  go  bubbling  in  the  sun,  and  the 
splash  of  the  distant  waterfalls  answers,  and  the 
sighing  of  the  wind  passes  with  hollow  sound. 
Only  the  shrill  cry  of  an  eagle  catches  the  ear 
as  it  swoops  upon  its  prey,  unconscious  of  the 
presence  of  man. 

By  a  common  instinct  the  Gothic  chiefs  gather 
before  the  cave,  the  lofty  figure  of  Pelayo  towering 
above  them  all.  These  men  represent  a  nation 
conquered,  fugitive,  helpless,  but  still  a  nation 
which  will  never  die,  but  live  to  bring  forth  long 
lines  of  kings  in  succeeding  centuries  to  rule  over 
two  hemispheres. 

They  know  it,  these  Gothic  chiefs,  the  prophecy 
is  in  them — a  solemn  faith  in  the  justice  of  their 
cause,  which  tells  them  the  hordes  of  unbelievers 
shall  not  prevail. 

And  as  they  wait,  by  other  paths,  invisible  to 
the  eye  but  known  to  the  fugitives,  emerge  the 
dark  forms  of  other  brothers-in-arms,  who  now 
join  the  group. 

Every  eye  seeks  Pelayo,  by  whose  invincible 
courage,  wisdom,  and  endurance  this  small  rem- 
nant has  been  saved.     Every  eye  seeks  his  as  he 


186  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

stands  aside  leaning  against  a  rock,  insensible,  as 
it  seems,  to  all  but  his  own  affliction. 

Then  Friula,  nearest  in  kinship  to  the  royal 
line,  speaks: 

"The  time  is  come,  brothers,  that  we  must 
choose  a  chief.  Long  has  the  noble  Pelayo  led  us. 
He  has  now  another  vengeance  to  fulfil.  The 
moment  is  opportune.  Onesinda  is  dead.  The 
butcher  Kerim  has  been  summoned  to  Cordoba. 
The  garrison  of  Gijon  lacks  a  defender.  Let  him 
lead  us  there  as  king. " 

"As  king, "  comes  ringing  from  every  side  of  the 
shrouded  summits,  which  catch  the  words  and 
bear  them  from  hollow,  spanless  depths  to  wild, 
yawning  gorges  among  the  black  cliffs,  down 
which  green  waters  pour  from  the  gloomy  pre- 
cincts of  the  cave  where  rest  the  remains  of 
Onesinda. 

"  Let  him  be  king ! "  sounds  in  many  tones  like  a 
chant  of  freedom,  intoned  by  these  Asturian  wilds, 
which  never  had  felt  the  foot  of  mortal  foe. 

As  the  voices  die  away  amid  a  thousand  echoes, 
Pelayo  turns  and  raises  his  steel  helmet,  showing 
the  careworn  lines  of  his  deeply  wrinkled  face  lit  up 
by  no  gleam  of  triumph.  Ere  he  speaks  he  raises 
his  hand,  and  points  to  the  deep  shadow  of  the  cave. 

"We  are  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  The 
shade  of  Onesinda  yet  lingers  in  that  body  she 
died  to  save.  Before  her  corpse,  speak  softly. 
Let  the  dead  rest  in  peace." 

"Then  in  her  presence  let  us  crown  him!"  cries 


PELAYO  PROCLAIMED  KING  187 

Friula,  taking  up  the  word.  "For  her  sake  let  the 
vengeance  of  the  Goths  not  tarry. " 

"We  are  but  as  a  handful  against  a  nation," 
says  Recesvinto,  "numberless  as  the  sands  of  the 
desert ;  but  we  will  fight  for  Pelayo  and  for  Spain. " 

"For  Pelayo  and  for  Spain!"  again  thunders 
round.  Even  the  tiny  streamlet  which  cleaves 
the  grass  they  stand  on  seems  to  snatch  the  words, 
and  goes  dancing  downwards,  bearing  them  to  the 
world. 

"My  friends  and  brothers,"  cries  Pelayo, 
rousing  himself  from  the  cloud  of  sorrow  into 
which  the  death  of  his  sister  has  plunged  him, 
"I  accept  your  trust.  We  have  been  together  in 
many  a  hard-fought  day  since  the  rout  of  the 
Guadalete  sent  us  to  these  wilds.  It  is  no  crown  I 
crave,  even  were  it  the  glorious  iron  circlet  which 
bound  the  brows  of  Alaric,  but  to  lead  you  in 
danger  and  in  toil.  For  this  I  will  be  your  king. 
God  willing,  I  will  cut  off  the  Moors  to  the  depth 
of  my  hatred,  root  and  branch.  They  shall  learn 
to  curse  the  day  when  Pelayo  was  proclaimed. 
At  the  cave  of  Cavadonga  a  new  nation  com- 
mences, which,  with  God's  help,  shall  exceed  the 
old.     In  the  name  of  Onesinda  we  will  triumph. " 

A  burst  of  joyful  enthusiasm  follows  this  ad- 
dress. He  speaks  with  a  dignity  and  confidence 
which  inspires  his  followers  with  the  reckless 
courage  he  feels  within  his  breast. 

The  Gothic  chiefs  gather  round  him  as  the  sheep 
round  the  faithful  shepherd  when  the  howl  of  the 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


wolf  is  borne  upon  the  wind.  No  lack  of  valour 
is  visible  upon  their  dark  brows,  and  looks  of 
deadly  defiance  shoot  from  eye  to  eye  as  they 
hasten  to  bind  the  shields  they  carry  together, 
place  Pelayo  on  them,  and  bear  him  three  times 
round  the  face  of  the  cave  of  Cavadonga,  the  rest 
following  with  bare  heads  and  naked  swords. 

The  Moslems  of  Gijon,  when  they  heard  that  the 
fugitive  Goths  had  elected  a  king  in  the  Asturian 
mountains,  laughed  with  scorn.  But  he  soon 
made  his  presence  felt  by  frequent  incursions, 
causing  great  havoc  among  the  Moors. 

At  length  he  collected  a  sufficient  force  to  meet 
them  in  a  pitched  battle.  The  great  victory  of 
Caincas  followed,  and  ere  the  eighteen  years  were 
passed  during  which  Pelayo  ruled  over  the  Goths, 
the  garrison  of  Gijon  surrendered,  and  El  Conde 
de  Gijon  was  one  of  the  titles  he  bore  upon  his 
shield 

In  the  solitude  of  the  Asturias  the  cave  of 
Cavadonga  is  still  to  be  found;  the  very  spot  or 
campo  before  it  on  which  Pelayo  was  carried  on 
the  shields  of  his  followers,  is  somewhat  vulgarised 
by  a  commemorative  obelisk  erected  by  the  Due 
de  Montpensier.  The  valley,  a  perfect  cul-de-sac, 
ascends  abruptly  to  the  site.  Pelayo  lies  within 
the  small  church  of  Saint  Eulalia,  near  at  hand 
at  Abaima.  A  simple  stone  is  engraved  with  his 
name  and  a  carved  sword  of  Roman  pattern. 

It  was  he  who  dealt  the  first  serious  blow  to  the 


PELAYO  PROCLAIMED  KING  189 

invaders.     From  that  time  they  grew  cautious  in 
their  approaches  to  the  north. 

Again  the  Goths  became  a  name  in  the  old 
kingdom.  At  Oviedo,  south  of  Gijon,  the  new 
dynasty  took  root,  concealed  at  first  in  the  ob- 
scure reigns  of  Friula,  Orelio,  Ramiro,  and  Ordono, 
calling  themselves  Kings  of  Galicia  and  Oviedo, 
up  to  Alonso  the  Second,  surnamed  "the  Chaste, " 
791,  when  Leon  came  to  be  both  the  court  and 
capital  of  the  kingdom  of  the  Goths. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
Bernardo   del   Carpio 

^  HE  city  of  Leon  is  a  very  ancient 
place,  old  even  in  the  days  of  the 
Romans.  Around  it  circles  the  line 
of  walls  spared   by   Witica    when 


he  levelled  the  defences  throughout  Spain. 

It  is  entered  by  four  gates  opening  into  four  wide 
streets,  crossing  each  other  at  right  angles.  Many 
have  been  the  changes,  but  there  still  stand  the 
city  walls,  substantially  the  same,  the  huge  stones 
worked  into  coarse  rubble,  capped  by  frequent 
towers  with  tapia  turrets  from  which  the  eye 
ranges  over  the  leafy  plains  of  mountain-bound 
Galicia. 

The  houses  are  low-roofed  and  homely,  as 
befits  the  rough  climate  of  the  north;  the  streets 
narrow  and  grey.  Red-brown  and  sepia  is  the 
colouring  against  the  sky,  with  whiffs  of  chill  air 
from  the  mountains  and  the  scent  of  fields  and 
flowers,  the  shelter  of  green  thickets  and  verdant 
banks,  sown  with  tall  poplars,  beside  purling 
streams. 

A  homelike  and  pleasant  place,  despised  by 
the    Moors    after    the    African    fantasies    of    the 

190 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  191 

south,  but  absolute  luxury  to  the  Spaniards,  as  so 
much  larger  and  nobler  than  their  late  capital, 
Oviedo. 

Alonso,  surnamed  "the  Chaste,"  second  of  that 
name,  passing  to  the  conclusion  of  a  long  and 
prosperous  reign,  finds  much  that  is  congenial  to 
his  monkish  prejudices  and  austere  life  in  the 
simplicity  of  the  nature  around. 

That  Alonso 's  habits  are  more  of  a  friar  than  of  a 
king  may  be  explained  by  the  aspect  of  the  times. 
As  successor  to  the  pious  "II  Diacono,"  and  as  a 
protest  against  Mauregato,  his  kinsman,  who,  for 
the  assistance  given  him  by  the  Moors,  agreed  to 
pay  them  what  is  often  mentioned  in  history  as 
the  "Maiden  Tribute,"  a  hundred  Christian 
maidens  to  be  sent  to  the  Caliph  at  Cordoba  for 
his  harem,  fifty  rich  and  fifty  poor,  a  shameful 
agreement  faithfully  fulfilled  until  the  reign  of 
Ramiro  in  866. 

This  specially  develops  in  Alonso  a  sentiment 
of  religious  protest  in  the  form  of  a  rigid  chastity, 
not  only  enforced  in  his  own  person,  but  in  all 
those  about  him.  As  he  grows  older  these  ideas 
take  more  and  more  hold  upon  him,  and  increase 
to  such  a  degree  as  actually  to  pervert  his  judg- 
ment. Obviously  it  is  the  interest  of  the  Church 
to  encourage  them,  and  for  this  reason  he  seeks  his 
companions  among  priests  and  monks. 

What  care  his  subjects  that  Alonso  is  called 
"the  Chaste,"  or  that  his  wife,  Queen  Berta,  lives 
like  a  nun?     The  royal  claims  to  sanctity  are 


192  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


utterly  thrown  away  upon  a  sarcastic,  laughter- 
loving  court,  especially  as  Dona  Ximena,  his  sister, 
a  buxom  dame,  with  the  fair  amplitude  of  her 
Gothic  ancestors,  has  so  far  strayed  from  the  fold 
as  to  become  the  mother  of  a  boy ! 

Imagine  the  scandal!  She  is  promptly  ordered 
off  to  a  cloister  for  life,  and  her  lover,  the  heroic 
Conde  de  Saldana,  imprisoned  in  the  castle  of 
Luna,  where,  more  gothicum,  he  is  deprived  of 
sight ;  Alonso  fasting,  and  scourging  himself  until 
nature  well-nigh  gives  way,  and  Berta,  the  Queen, 
bathed  in  tears,  doing  nothing  but  confess,  al- 
though she  has  nothing  to  say  except  that  she  has 
lived  in  company  with  such  a  sinner  as  Ximena ! 

But  the  boy  thrives  apace,  a  very  lusty  and 
proper  child,  with  no  notion  of  dying  or  care  as  to 
who  are  his  parents,  provided  he  has  enough  to 
eat  and  playmates  to  amuse  him,  horses  to  ride 
and  dogs  to  follow  him  about  the  court,  where, 
with  singular  inconsistency,  Alonso  allows  him 
to  remain  and  bear  the  name  of  Bernardo  del 
Carpio. 

Not  that  he  is  acknowledged  by  the  king — ■ 
heaven  forfend!  Though  one  of  those  secrets 
known  to  every  one,  Bernardo  himself  was  never 
told  how  he  came  into  the  world,  but  accepted 
himself  in  ignorance  as  one  standing  alone,  not 
in  arrogance  and  pride,  but  out  of  the  simplicity 
of  his  heart,  which  prompted  him  to  be  second  to 
none,  seeing  that  he  had  already  given  good  proofs 
of  his  valour  in  tilts  and  tourneys  and  in  continual 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  193 

encounters  with  the  Moors,  pressing  hard  on  the 
little  Christian  kingdom,  so  narrow  against  the 
sea. 

It  is  a  gusty  morning  in  the  month  of  June;  a 
mass  of  black  clouds  rides  up  from  the  west, 
portending  a  coming  storm.  Distant  thunder 
rumbles  between  snatches  of  fitful  sunshine, 
lighting  up  the  inner  court  of  the  royal  palace 
where  the  Roman  prefects  once  ruled — a  plain 
edifice,  built  of  stone,  with  open  arcades  running 
round  supported  by  pilasters  of  coarsely  grained 
marble. 

In  and  out  there  is  an  air  of  unusual  bustle  and 
movement.  Sturdy  Goths  are  hurrying  to  and 
fro,  their  long,  unkempt  hair  hanging  on  their 
shoulders,  and  others  of  a  slighter  mould,  in  out- 
landish draperies  and  white  turbans,  whose  finer 
features  betray  an  Eastern  origin ;  for,  as  was  often 
the  case,  African  captives  in  battle  gladly  accepted, 
as  slaves,  the  more  peaceful  service  of  the  Christ- 
ians, when  no  necessity  was  imposed  on  them  of 
fighting  their  Moslem  brethren. 

In  the  countenances  of  all  there  is  a  look  of  sur- 
prise as  they  hurry  by,  carrying  such  golden 
utensils  as  served  for  the  celebration  of  the  Mass, 
jewelled  cups,  golden  patens,  embroidered  cush- 
ions, and  rich  folds  of  arras  and  tapestry  worked 
in  Algerian  looms,  with  which  the  chapel  walls 
are  decorated  on  high  occasions  of  state. 

A  master  of  the  ceremonies,  or  Jefe,  bearing  an 
13 


194  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

ivory  wand,  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  court 
directing  the  servants.  His  fiat  Castilian  cap  of 
a  bright  colour,  and  dark  manto  lined  with  fur, 
sharp  aquiline  features  and  piercing  eyes  pro- 
claim him  a  native-born  Spaniard  of  the  old 
type. 

"Is  it  that  foreign  palmer,"  he  mutters  be- 
tween his  teeth,  "arrived  from  Navarre,  or  that 
Gallic  knight  who  flies  the  fleur-de-lis  with  such 
heavy  armour  and  delicate  forms  of  speech?  I 
warrant  me  he  is  a  hypocrite  to  the  core,  as  he 
comes  from  the  Frankish  king.  One  or  both,  they 
have  bewitched  our  master.  The  palmer,  with 
his  sandalled  feet  and  cockle-shell,  an  ill-favoured 
fellow  one  scents  a  mile  off,  dirt  being,  I  am  told,  a 
quality  next  to  holiness — but  I  like  it  not,  the 
odour  of  garlic  is  strong  enough  for  me — is  shut 
up  with  my  lord  in  his  private  closet.  Anyway, 
the  king  has  encountered  the  foul  fiend  some- 
where, that  he  is  tempted  to  risk  his  crown.  Now 
they  have  been  singing  a  laudamus  in  the  chapel  for 
the  safe  arrival  of  the  French  king,  whom  the 
devil  confound  as  a  stranger  and  an  invader! 
Well-a-day!  The  Holy  Virgin  of  Saragossa  help 
us!  We  can  die  but  once!  Here,  Poilo,  Poilo!" 
he  shouts  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  to  a  rough, 
wolfish-looking  dog  which  has  precipitated  itself 
with  an  angry  growl  and  clenched  teeth  into  the 
arcade. 

"Fie  upon  you  for  an  ill-mannered  brute. 
Leave  the  king's  guests  alone." 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  195 

Doffing  his  scarlet  cap,  the  Jefe  at  once  assumes 
the  humble  aspect  of  his  condition,  as  two  person- 
ages, evidently  of  importance,  emerge  from  the 
arcade,  taking  no  notice  of  his  repeated  low  salu- 
tations or  of  the  snarls  of  the  dog  which  he  now 
holds  by  a  silver  collar,  as  they  walk  up  and 
down  the  court  in  eager  conversation. 

"Was  the  like  ever  heard?"  exclaims  one  of 
them,  a  tall  figure  of  martial  aspect,  attired  in  a 
rich  robe  trimmed  at  neck  and  shoulder  with 
miniver,  and  secured  on  the  breast  with  a  huge 
gold  brooch. 

"Let  Alonso  forfeit  his  crown  if  he  please,"  is 
the  answer,  ' '  but  I  will  never  consent  to  cut  my 
own  throat." 

"Nor  I,  Favila, "  replies  the  other,  a  younger 
man,  who  holds  the  office  of  Chamberlain,  wearing 
a  heavy  gold  chain  about  his  neck,  his  slight  figure 
set  off  by  a  coquettishness  in  the  fashion  of  the 
time — a  close-fitting  tunic  of  dark  green,  with  a 
hood  attached  reaching  to  his  waist,  and  a  plume 
fixed  by  a  jewel  in  a  small  cap  poised  on  one  ear. 

"I,  for  one,  will  stoutly  defend  my  castle  and 
shake  off  all  allegiance  to  Alonso.  I  would  rather 
join  the  Moors,  treacherous  as  they  are  and  ready 
to  pounce  on  us  at  every  corner,  than  submit  to  an 
inroad  of  new  enemies  to  overrun  the  land  we  have 
rescued  with  so  much  blood.  Bad  enough  to  have 
Charlemagne  for  a  neighbour,  without  bringing 
him  here  to  rule  over  us  with  the  king's  leave. 
They  say  he  and  his  paladins  are  already  on  the 


196  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

march.  Why  cannot  the  king  be  content  to  name 
his  sister's  son  his  successor?  Whom  will  he  find 
better  than  the  son  of  Saldana  and  a  royal  in- 
fanta?    I  love  Bernardo  with  all  my  heart. " 

"That  Alonso  will  never  do,"  rejoins  the  older 
man,  "in  face  of  his  obstinate  refusal  to  admit  the 
legality  of  the  marriage  of  Dona  Ximena  to  the 
Count  of  Saldana.  They  say  he  has  destroyed 
the  documents,  and  that  Bernardo  can  never  prove 
himself  his  father's  son. " 

"He  has  no  notion  of  trying,"  answers  Don 
Ricardo,  "as  far  as  I  can  see.  He  is  strangely 
indifferent  to  name  and  position." 

"But  is  the  reason  of  the  king's  strange  per- 
versity known?"  asked  Don  Favila. 

"In  part  it  is.  First  there  is  in  his  head  this 
maggot  of  chastity. " 

"He  will  not  find  that  virtue  among  the  Gallic 
monks  he  is  so  fond  of  harbouring, "  Don  Favila 
observes,  twirling  his  black  moustache.  "Of  all 
the  hoary  sinners " 

"No  matter,"  interrupts  Don  Ricardo,  "that 
is  not  to  the  point.  You  question  me  of  the  reason 
■ — if  he  has  any  tangible  one  and  is  not  mad — that 
Alonso  treats  Bernardo  as  he  does.  Chastity  in 
the  first  place.  The  propagation  of  his  royal  race 
offends  him.  He  glories  in  the  name  of  'the 
Chaste.'     He  would  have  all  his  family  the  same. " 

"Fool,"  mutters  Don  Favila,  but  he  offers  no 
further  interruption. 

"Dona  Ximena,  his  only  sister,  was  destined  to 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  197 

become  the  Abbess  of  the  great  Convent  of  San 
Marcos,  outside  the  gate  of  Leon,  which  he  is 
building.     So  averse  to  love  is  he  himself " 

"Then  why  in  the  foul  fiend's  name  did  he 
marry  Queen  Berta?"  puts  in  the  younger  man, 
evidently  of  an  impatient  temperament,  but  Don 
Ricardo  passes  the  question  by  as  irrelevant  and 
proceeds : 

"When  he  found  that  the  Infanta  preferred  a 
mortal  to  an  immortal  spouse,  and  had  actually 
gone  the  length  of  bearing  him  a  child,  he  fell  into 
such  a  state  of  blind  rage  that  he  declared  she  had 
never  married,  and  shut  her  up  with  such  rigour 
that  she  died." 

"By  Santiago,  a  most  barbarous  act,"  is  the 
response;  "but  saints  are  always  cruel. " 

"About  as  barbarous,"  answers  Don  Ricardo, 
"as  calling  in  to  inherit  the  Gothic  throne  a 
foreigner,  Charlemagne,  a  Frank,  to  whom  he 
offers  the  succession,  when  his  own  sister's  child 
is  beside  him  branded  with  infamy." 

"  If  this  is  the  Church's  teaching,  I  would  fain  be 
a  Mussulman.  What  will  Bernardo  say  when  he 
hears  of  it?" 

"Who  speaks  of  me?"  cries  a  clear  young  voice, 
coming  from  a  more  distant  part  of  the  patio 
where  an  arched  gateway  led  out  into  the  place  of 
arms  in  which  the  Spanish  knights  and  soldiers 
exercised  themselves.  A  knight's  chain  and  spurs 
of  gold  show  out  from  under  a  manto  of  dark  vel- 
vet, which  he  throws  on  the  ground,  and  which  is 


198  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

instantly,  with  every  sign  of  reverence,  picked  up 
by  the  Jefe,  with  difficulty  holding  Poilo  back,  who 
with  sharp,  quick  barks  and  yells  of  delight  seeks 
to  precipitate  itself  on  the  young  knight,  much  too 
preoccupied  to  observe  it,  save  that  with  a  quick 
wave  of  the  hand  he  dismisses  both  the  dog  and 
the  Jefe. 

Bernardo's  somewhat  short  and  sturdy  figure  is 
clothed  in  linked  mail  which  rattles  as  he  hastens 
forward  to  join  Favila  and  Ricardo,  at  the  moment 
that  a  louder  and  nearer  clap  of  thunder  is  audible 
and  a  deeper  shadow  falls. 

"Favila,  Ricardo,  you  have  heard  this  cursed 
news?  I  see  it  in  your  faces.  By  the  blood  of  Saint 
Isidore,  is  the  king  distraught  that  he  disposes 
of  the  kingdom  of  Leon  as  though  he  were  a  churl 
chaffering  away  his  field?  Can  it  be  true?  I  am 
just  come  from  the  mountains,  where  I  have  met 
with  sport  both  of  men  and  beasts,  for  the  Moor 
Kirza  has  planted  himself  at  Selagon,  and  sends 
out  detachments  to  the  foot  of  the  Asturias.  Tell 
me,  friends,  can  it  be  true?" 

Both  bow  their  heads. 

"We  will  never  submit,"  said  Favila,  "to  the 
Frankish  king.  Many  are  already  gone  from  the 
court  to  place  their  castles  in  a  state  of  defence. " 

"What!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  whose  cheeks  are 
flushing  scarlet  and  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelling  with  growing  passion.  "What!  give 
away  the  whole  kingdom  of  Leon,  with  its  warriors 
and  nobles,  to  a  foreigner,  as  if  we  were  a  flock  of 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  199 

sheep?  I  am  of  no  illustrious  race  myself" — at 
these  words  a  significant  look  passes  between  his 
two  companions,  who  turn  their  eyes  on  the 
ground.  ' '  Faith !  I  know  not  of  what  race  I  am, " 
with  a  short  laugh,  "nor  do  I  care  while  the  king 
continues  his  favour  to  me,  but  I  am  a  Spaniard; 
I  will  sell  my  living  to  no  man. " 

"The  king  has  no  heir,"  observes  Favila,  in  a 
dry  tone,  raising  curious  eyes  on  Bernardo.  "He 
says  he  desires  to  settle  the  succession  before  his 
death." 

"True,"  answers  Ricardo,  "no  legal  heir," 
and  he,  in  his  turn,  shot  a  significant  glance  at 
Bernardo,  who  does  not  in  the  least  observe  it. 
"He  may  fear  that  some  one  of  his  blood  might 
take  his  place  that  he  would  not  approve. " 

"Sir,  you  speak  in  riddles,"  cries  Bernardo, 
cutting  in.  "Who  is  there  that  the  king  fears  will 
step  into  his  place?  Marry  for  me  I  know  not,  nor 
do  I  care.  Confusion  to  his  surname  of  'the 
Chaste,'  if  Alonso  brings  in  Charlemagne  and  his 
paladins  into  the  hard-won  land  that  the  noble 
Pelayo  wrested  from  the  Moor.  By  the  memory 
of  the  cave  of  Cavadonga  and  the  sacred  oath  our 
ancestors  swore  among  the  savage  rocks  of  the 
Asturias"  (at  these  words,  Bernardo  raises  his 
steel  cap  from  his  head,  and  stands  with  open 
brow  and  glistening  eyes  full  in  the  glory  of 
the  fitful  sunshine),  "I  pledge  myself  never  to 
sheathe  my  unworthy  sword  until  every  invader, 
be  he  enemy  or  friend,  Frank,  Berber,  or  Moor,  be 


200  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


driven  out  of  the  limits  of  Leon.  I  swear  it,"  he 
adds  in  a  deep  tone,  laying  his  right. hand  on  his 
breast,  where,  on  a  laced  front  of  velvet,  was 
embroidered  the  cognizance  he  had  received  from 
the  king.  "You  are  witnesses,  my  friends?" 
At  which  Don  Favila  and  Don  Ricardo  incline 
their  heads,  and  Bernardo  replaces  the  helmet  on 
his  head  from  which  floated  a  sombre  plume,  then 
adding,  with  a  light  laugh,  "Let  Alonso  play  the 
anchorite  if  he  will,  but  all  of  us  are  not  blest  with 
his  virtues." 

"Mock  not,  profane  youth,  the  saintly  name  of 
our  master.  There  is  no  danger  that  your  virtues 
will  reach  the  height  of  his  excellency.  His  pure 
soul  lives  more  in  heaven  than  on  earth,"  says 
the  voice  of  an  older  man,  an  ancient  Jefe  much 
honoured  by  the  king,  advancing  to  join  the  group, 
which  has  moved,  in  the  energy  of  talk,  higher  up 
towards  the  stone  border  of  a  fountain  which  rises 
from  the  base  of  a  Roman  statue  overgrown  with 
moss  and  weeds. 

"Your  challenge,  Bernardo,  comes  too  late. 
Charlemagne  is  already  near  the  Pyrenees,  with 
all  his  knights  and  vassals,  the  renowned  Roland 
among  them ;  they  will  soon  touch  the  soil  of  Leon, 
to  accept  the  inheritance  our  gracious  king  has 
given  him.  Once  arrived  in  Leon,  you  dare  not, 
presumptuous  boy,  who  judge  your  betters  by 
yourself,  draw  your  sword  upon  the  guest  of 
Alonso." 

"He  shall  never  be  his  guest, "  shouts  Bernardo, 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO  201 


fire  flashing  from  his  eyes;  "neither  Charle- 
magne nor  his  peers,  his  knights  or  paladins, 
Roland  and  the  rest  shall  set  their  feet  in  Leon.  I, 
Bernardo  del  Carpio,  will  bar  the  way. "  A  laugh 
of  derision  comes  from  the  old  chamberlain,  at 
what  he  considers  such  madness.  Even  Favila 
and  Ricardo  smile,  so  vain  it  seems  that  this 
youth  could  stay  the  advance  of  the  greatest 
monarch  in  Christendom. 

"You  laugh!"  cries  Bernardo,  turning  fiercely 
round,  his  glittering  eyes  aglow.  "You  deem 
I  boast?  Be  it  so.  Time  will  show.  I  speak 
not  of  Divine  help,  Santiago  on  his  milk-white 
charger  armed  cap-d-pie  in  radiant  steel  inter- 
posing, or  other  monkish  tales.  If  deeds  are  the 
language  of  the  brave,  words  lie  with  fools.  Was 
it  with  words  Pelayo  revenged  his  sister's  death 
and  raised  the  Gothic  standard  against  the  great 
Abdurraman?  Excuse  me,  good  sir,"  he  adds, 
breaking  off  suddenly,  the  inspired  look  passing 
from  his  countenance  as  he  addresses  the  older 
man,  whose  sarcastic  countenance  is  still  sharp- 
ened to  a  sneer — "if  I  who  am  so  young,  speak 
my  mind.     I  go  to  the  king  to  remonstrate. " 

"You  would  do  better  to  forbear,"  hastily  in- 
terrupts the  old  courtier.  "The  king  is  at  his 
devotions,  assisted  by  a  learned  monk  lately 
arrived    from    Navarre." 

"I  care  not,  though  the  air  breed  monks  as  thick 
as  flies;  you  stay  me  not,  Sir  Chamberlain. " 


CHAPTER  XVH 
King  Alonso 


ERNARDO  hastily  passed  the  court 
with  swift,  straight  strides,  his 
form  in  shadow  defined  against 
the  light.  A  heavy  peal  of  thunder 
sounded  overhead  as  he  turned  to  the  right,  where 
a  marble  stair,  with  a  sculptured  balustrade, 
guarded  by  soldiers,  led  to  the  royal  apartments 
on  the  first  floor,  under  a  flat  roof. 

"  'Tis  indeed  a  foul  shame,"  said  Don  Favila, 
looking  after  him,  as  he  and  his  companions  took 
shelter  under  the  arcade  from  the  now  thickly  fall- 
ing rain,  "that  our  king,  who  loves  him  well,  does 
not  grant  him  the  honours  of  his  birth  and  name 
him  his  successor.  He  guesses  not  who  he  is. 
You  noted 'his  words?"  turning  to  Ricardo,  who 
nodded. 

"What!  a  bastard!"  exclaimed  the  aged  cham- 
berlain; "a  braggart  and  a  bastard,  instead  of 
the  victorious  Charlemagne?  Good  gentlemen, 
you  are  distraught.  Would  you  have  a  sov- 
ereign, the  pureness  of  whose  life  will  pass  as  an 
example  in  all  time,  forget  so  far  his  principles  as 
to  countenance  his  sister's  shame?     The  king,  my 


KING  ALONSO  203 


master,  has  done  right  to  protect   his  kingdom 
from  such  reproach. " 

Meanwhile  Bernardo  passes  the  alguazils  who 
knew  him  well,  his  mailed  feet  resounding  on  the 
marble  floor  as  step  by  step  he  reaches  a  door  be- 
fore which  a  heavy  panel  of  tapestry  is  displayed, 
bearing  a  royal  crown,  and  beneath,  the  arms  of 
Leon  and  Oviedo,  bound  by  an  inscription  in  old 
Gothic  letters. 

The  first  chamber,  lined  with  wooden  wainscot 
and  a  groined  oaken  roof,  is  bare  of  other  furniture, 
save  some  rudely  carved  benches,  on  which  meanly 
attired  attendants  sit  or  lounge. 

These  Bernardo  passes  with  a  hasty  salute, 
which  they  respectfully  return,  then  on  into 
another  and  another  chamber  floored  with  coloured 
Moorish  tiles,  into  the  last,  a  hugely  proportioned 
hall,  the  carved  roof  supported  by  lofty  pillars. 
This  hall,  through  the  window  of  which  the 
lightning  plays,  though  void  of  furniture,  is  far 
more  ornate  than  the  rest,  seeing  that  at  the  farther 
end,  on  a  raised  platform,  surmounted  by  a  dusty 
canopy,  is  a  throne,  on  which  a  royal  chair  is 
placed,  used  on  such  rare  occasions  as  when 
Alonso  receives  his  companeros  and  knights  in 
state. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  neglect  of  this  primitive 
apartment,  now  seen  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
coming  storm.  Trophies  of  early  Gothic  armour 
are  fixed  on  hangings  of  once  embroidered 
damask ;  but  so  little  care  has  been  taken  that  the 


204  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

nails  have  given  way,  the  tapestry  has  fallen,  and 
the  mortar  which  knit  together  the  solid  blocks 
of  stone  is  visible. 

Before  the  throne  stands  a  long  wooden  table, 
on  which  rests  a  rich  enamelled  crucifix,  set  with 
jewels,  and  huge  candelabra  of  silver,  holding 
waxen  torches  such  as  are  used  in  churches  to  light 
up  the  shrines  of  saints,  a  rude  attempt  at  splen- 
dour which  leaves  the  rest  more  bare.  Seats  there 
are  with  time-stained  leather  coverings,  and  a  royal 
chair  inlaid  with  ivory,  as  was  also  the  curiously 
formed  footstool.  Two  low  doors  open  in  a  recess 
behind  the  throne  into  two  opposite  turrets,  one 
leading  to  the  private  apartments  of  the  king,  who 
lives  alone — Queen  Berta  being  relegated  to  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  palace,  which  formed  three  sides 
of  a  square,  fronting  the  cathedral,  where  there  is 
an  array  of  delicately  carved  saints  and  martyrs 
niched  round  the  deep  curves  of  three  arched 
portals  under  two  turreted  towers; — the  other 
door  opening  into  a  small  chapel,  where  King 
Alonso,  kneeling  on  the  bare  stones,  passes  a  great 
part  of  the  day  and  often  of  the  night,  in  ecstatic 
prayer  and  meditation. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Bernardo  hesitate.  As 
he  knocked  on  the  oaken  panels  interspersed  with 
heavy  nails,  which  opened  to  the  chapel,  the  latch 
yielded  to  his  hand,  and  he  entered  as  a  blinding 
flash  of  lightning  gleamed  bright  and  strong  and 
the  thunder  broke  loudly  overhead.  An  instant 
after,  all  had  darkened  into  so  profound  a  gloom 


204  01  :  IN  SPAIN 


fallen,  and 
id  blocks 

able, 
with 
ding 


The  Generate,  Granada. 

ated  to  a  dis- 
armed tliree  sides 
al,  where  th 
and  ma 
three  arched 
lie  other 


and 

tant 

after  gloom 


KING  ALONSO  205 


that  at  first  nothing  was  visible,  except  the  dim 
outline  of  a  gilt  retablo  behind  the  altar,  on  which  a 
light  burned  day  and  night  before  the  ever-present 
host  and  such  sacred  bones  and  relics  as  had  been 
saved  from  desecration  by  the  Moors. 

"Who  dares  to  break  in  on  my  devotions?" 
cried  a  harsh  voice,  speaking  as  it  were  from  the 
depths  of  sudden  night  before  a  shrine  concealed 
in  the  sunken  curvings  of  the  wall.  "Begone! 
leave  me  to  commune  with  the  saints. " 

"It  is  in  their  name  I  come,  0  King,  to  defend 
the  land  they  love,"  answered  Bernardo,  bending 
his  knee,  in  a  voice  so  young  and  fresh,  life  and 
youth  seemed  to  waft  with  it  into  the  gloom. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Not  now,  Bernardo,  not  now,  my  boy.  Leave 
me.  I  have  vowed  a  novena  to  the  Virgin  of 
Saragossa,  whose  favour  I  specially  implore,  with 
that  of  the  Holy  Santiago  and  Saint  Isidore  our 
patrons,  on  a  great  project  I  have  in  hand.  Not 
now." 

"Yes,  now"  in  a  stern  voice  came  from  Bernardo, 
fronting  the  king,  who  had  turned  reluctantly 
towards  him.  "What  I  have  to  say  brooks  not  a 
moment's  delay."  Another  crash  from  without 
interrupts  him,  and  a  wild  whirl  of  hail  and  rain 
rattle  outside  on  the  casement.  "Oh,  my  lord," 
he  continues,  "are  there  no  valiant  knights  in 
Leon  that  you  should  betray  your  kingdom  into 
the  hands  of  a  strange  king?  " 

"Betray?  you  dare  to  say  betray,  after  the  long 


206  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

and  prosperous  reign  heaven  has  vouchsafed  me?" 
cried  Alonso,  rising  up  from  where  he  was  kneeling 
as  a  subdued  ray  of  light  lit  the  sunken  features  of 
his  emaciated  face,  with  long  white  hair  and 
beard,  the  natural  fairness  of  his  skin  turned  by 
time  into  a  yellow  tinge;  his  eyes  full  and  grey, 
with  thin  imperceptible  eyebrows,  and  cheeks 
deeply  lined  with  wrinkles  which  collected  on  his 
high  forehead  under  a  silken  cap.  A  noble  face, 
once  full  of  manly  beauty,  but  with  an  expression 
of  coldness  and  fickleness  in  the  wandering  eye, 
and  weakness  in  the  thin-lined  mouth  which 
marred  it.  Then  in  a  louder  tone  he  continued: 
"It  ill  becomes  your  slender  years,  Bernardo, 
and  your  lack  of  experience,  to  question  the 
wisdom  of  your  sovereign. " 

"But  to  sell  us  to  a  foreigner,  my  lord,  to  give 
us  over  into  the  hands  of  the  Frankish  wolf! 
This  can  never  be.  A  courage  equal  to  Charle- 
magne's beats  in  a  thousand  Spanish  breasts,  and 
I,  Bernardo,  will  lead  them.  Not  secretly  and 
treacherously,  but  in  the  light  of  day.  Therefore 
I  am  come  to  warn  you  against  yourself.  For  by 
no  unbiassed  will  of  your  own  have  you  done  this 
thing." 

"Silence,  rash  boy,"  answered  Alonso,  roused 
into  unwonted  passion  by  these  stinging  words, 
"you  presume  upon  my  constant  favour  to  insult 
me." 

"Never,  oh  never!  All  that  I  know  of  kind- 
ness is  from  you,"  and  Bernardo  cast  himself  at 


KING  ALONSO  207 


Alonso's  feet  and  seized  his  hands.  "You  are 
my  king  and  master.  I  forget  none  of  your 
bounties  to  a  friendless  boy"  (at  this  word  Alonso 
started,  and  laid  his  hand  tenderly  on  Bernardo's 
head,  but  presently  withdrew  it  with  a  sigh) ;  "but 
neither  the  crown  you  wear  nor  your  bounties, 
had  they  been  ten  times  greater,  would  make  me 
a  traitor  to  the  land. " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Bernardo  del  Carpio's  "Vow 


S  Bernardo  knelt  upon  the  steps  of 
the  darkened  altar,  on  which  the 
outline  of  a  saint  with  a  dim  glory 
seemed  to  bless  him  with  out- 
stretched arms,  something  in  the  ardent  auburn 
of  his  hair,  relieved  from  the  pressure  of  his  cap 
of  steel,  which  he  had  removed  before  entering, 
his  open  manly  brow  and  honest  eyes  fixed  on  him 
with  such  pleading  warmth,  touched  some  subtle 
chord  of  tenderness  within  the  King. 

His  sister  Ximena  in  her  youth  rose  up  and 
gazed  at  him  in  Bernardo's  eyes.  Deep  down  in 
his  cold  heart  a  thrill  of  human  affection  throbbed 
as  he  recalled  their  games  as  children  and  a  thou- 
sand ties  of  girlish  love  she  had  woven  about  his 
heart.  Alas!  how  he  had  loved  her!  How  he 
still  mourned  her,  and  importuned  Heaven  with 
constant  prayers,  spite  of  what  he  considered 
the  deadly  sin  of  her  apostasy  in  forming  an 
adulterous  union  which  shut  out  her  son  from 
the  legal  pale  of  kinship!  Therefore  he  had  de- 
stroyed all  record  of  the  marriage,  ever,  in  the 
consideration  of  the  Church,  a  sacrilegious  act. 

208 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO'S  VOW      209 

That  the  son  of  his  sister  should  inherit  the 
crown  had  ever  been  to  him  a  horror  and  a  dread. 
Indeed,  in  the  ramifications  of  his  strangely  mixed 
nature,  this  fear  had  mainly  influenced  him  in  the 
choice  he  had  made  of  Charlemagne. 

Now,  by  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  very 
boldness  of  Bernardo,  his  open-handed  valour  and 
the  fiery  words  in  which  he  pleaded,  invested  him 
with  something  sacred  as  the  utterance  of  the  true 
and  rightful  defender  of  his  people.  From  that 
moment  a  tardy  remorse  began  to  possess  him, 
and  doubts  of  the  rightfulness  of  his  act  in  de- 
stroying the  proofs  of  his  legitimacy. 

"Too  late,  too  late,"  he  murmured,  gazing 
sorrowfully  into  the  depths  of  Bernardo's  clear 
blue  eyes,  and  unconsciously  passing  his  fingers 
through  the  beads  of  an  agate  rosary  suspended 
at  his  waist,  as  if  to  invoke  the  assistance  of  the 
saints  to  maintain  the  steadfastness  of  his  resolve — 
then  shook  his  head,  which  sank  upon  his  breast. 

All  this  time  the  war  of  the  elements  was  raging 
without.  Thunder,  lightning,  wind,  and  rain  had 
burst  forth  in  one  of  those  sudden  tempests  which 
sweep  down  from  the  mountains  even  in  the  midst 
of  summer.  The  walls  of  the  old  palace  seemed  to 
rock,  and  at  times  the  voices  of  the  speakers  were 
barely  audible. 

"My  lord,  you  answer  not,"  pleaded  Bernardo, 
rising  to  his  feet,  offended  at  the  long  silence,  as  a 
gleam  of  vivid  lightning  at  the  same  moment  swept 
over  him.     "Hark!     The  very  powers  of  nature 


210  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

protest  against  your  act.  At  least  before  you 
made  us  over  as  vassals  to  Charlemagne  you  might 
have  called  the  Cortes  together,  and  heard  what 
the  nation  had  to  say.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Don 
Alonso,  you  have  made  a  promise  you  can  never 
keep.  Instead  of  the  crown  of  Leon,  Charlemagne 
will  have  to  face  a  nation  in  arms.  Every  man 
that  bears  the  name  of  Castilian  will  rise  and  water 
the  soil  with  his  blood  rather  than  yield,  and  I, 
Bernardo  del  Carpio,  will  lead  them!" 

For  an  instant  the  fury  within  him  overtopped 
all  control,  but  he  checked  himself  as  Alonso 
answered : 

' '  Bernardo,  Bernardo !  Again  I  warn  you  not  to 
overstep  the  respect  you  owe  me.  Your  words  are 
sharp,  but  there  is  a  ring  of  truth  in  them,  I  admit. 
Bethink  you,  my  boy,"  and  Alonso's  voice  fell 
suddenly  into  a  feeble  tone,  "Charlemagne  is  a 
Christian  king,  and  a  great  warrior,  whose  power 
has  always  curbed  the  Moor.  To  exterminate 
the  Moslem  is  the  duty  of  sovereigns  who  love  the 
saints.  Who  is  so  strong  as  he?  Wage  no  war 
on  Christians,  but  keep  your  sword  for  the  vile 
Infidels  who  press  round  the  limits  of  our  land. " 

"Christian  or  Moslem,  my  lord,  Charlemagne 
shall  never  lead  the  knights  of  Leon,"  cried  Ber- 
nardo. "But  before  I  go" — (and  again  he  bowed 
his  knee  before  the  king,  who  had  now  seated  him- 
self in  an  arched  niche,  a  silver  lamp  suspended 
over  his  head  among  the  rich  details  of  garlands 
and  shields,  crowns  and  badges  at  moments  visible 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO'S  VOW      211 

in  startling  distinctness  in  the  rapidly  succeeding 
sheets  of  lightning) — "tell  me,  I  pray  you,  what 
name  I  bear,  and  from  whom  I  am  sprung?  I 
crave  it  as  a  boon.  Men  call  me  Bernardo  del 
Carpio,  by  the  name  of  the  castle  you  bestowed 
upon  me.  When  I  question  further  they  turn 
aside  and  smile.  But  a  knight  in  such  a  battle  as 
I  go  to  lead  against  the  Franks  must  wear  his  own 
escutcheon  on  his  shield,  not  one  granted  him  by 
favour." 

Had  a  viper  suddenly  fixed  its  sharpest  fangs 
upon  his  flesh  Alonso  could  not  have  started  with 
greater  horror.  His  glassy  eyes  fixed  themselves 
on  the  unconscious  Bernardo,  who  eagerly  awaited 
his  answer  to  be  gone,  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  dread  and  terror,  eyeing  him  as  if  the  foul 
fiend  himself  had  crossed  his  path,  while  a  tre- 
mendous explosion  of  thunder  overhead  rattled 
around,  and  flash  after  flash  of  lightning  quivered 
upon  the  walls.  At  length,  out  of  his  mouth  came 
inarticulate  words,  mixed  with  broken  phrases, 
but  spoken  so  low  in  the  uproar  created  by  the 
storm  no  sense  came  to  Bernardo. 

"Begone,  bastard!"  cried  the  king  at  length, 
every  feature  in  his  face  working  with  the  violence 
of  his  passion.  "Have  I  harboured  you  so  many 
years  to  open  the  wound  of  my  dishonour?  Is 
this  the  return  you  make  for  all  my  care?  Neither 
name  nor  kindred  have  you,  so  get  you  gone.  The 
sight  of  you  offends  me. " 

"Oh,  my  lord!"  answered  Bernardo,  whose  open 


212  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

countenance  had  grown  very  white,  deep  lines 
forming  on  mouth  and  brow  with  a  sudden  look 
of  age  the  course  of  years  could  not  have  wrought, 
"had  any  man  but  you  spoken  thus  to  me,  he 
would  not  have  lived  to  draw  another  breath. 
Your  words  point  to  some  hideous  secret,  some 
foul  crime,  in  which  you  share.  Great  God! 
whence  am  I  sprung?  The  very  beasts  have 
dams  that  suckle  them,  and  is  Bernardo  alone 
deprived  of  the  common  claims  of  nature?  " 

No  answer  came  from  the  king;  no  sign,  no 
yielding.  Bernardo's  question  had  struck  him 
to  the  quick. 

"As  you  pray  for  mercy,  sire,  speak  one  word, " 
urged  Bernardo,  the  trembling  of  his  lips  telling 
what  he  suffered.     ' '  Are  father  and  mother  dead  ? ' ' 

"Both  to  me,"  was  the  stern  answer.  "The 
mortal  spark  of  life  can  never  reanimate  the  soul 
dead  in  sin.  Question  me  no  more,  audacious 
youth.  And  think  not,  because  my  blood  runs  in 
your  veins  that  I  will  favour  your  ambition. 
Rather  have  I  called  in  the  stranger  to  occupy  the 
throne.  Now  you  know  my  mind.  Were  I  dead, 
my  spirit  would  stand  as  with  a  flaming  sword  to 
shut  you  out." 

"Then  sweeter  far  than  life  and  honour  and 
glory,  come  death!"  exclaimed  Bernardo,  throwing 
up  his  arms.  "From  this  day  I  am  a  desperate 
man.  My  sword  is  to  me  the  staff  of  life;  blood- 
shed and  carnage  the  food  on  which  I  live.  Come 
now  over  the  grey  heights  of  the  mountains  the 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO'S  VOW      213 

Frankish  host  and  I  will  meet  them  as  never  mortal 
did  his  country's  foes.  Come,  great  Charle- 
magne and  all  your  peers;  iron-fisted  Guarinos, 
good  Ferragol,  Oliver,  Gayferos,  and  Roland, 
bravest  of  paladins.  Come  all.  Despair,  dis- 
honour are  the  keen  edges  to  the  weapon  which 
I  draw  for  your  destruction.  An  unknown  knight, 
degraded  from  my  place,  I  will  leave  a  name  be- 
hind me  that  shall  be  honoured  as  long  as  Spain 
cleaves  the  seas.  Adieu,  my  lord, "  turning  to  the 
king,  "you  have  forgotten  your  duty  to  the  land 
you  rule,  come  to  you  inch  by  inch,  bathed  in 
Gothic  blood.  I,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the  name- 
less outcast,  go  forth  to  defend  it.  You  have 
planted  a  dagger  in  my  heart  not  hecatombs  of 
the  enemy  can  draw  forth.     Adieu! " 

"Now  stay,  my  boy,"  cried  the  king,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder  as  he  turned  to  go.  "Spite 
of  the  past,  my  heart  warms  to  you.  Take  the 
lion  of  Leon  and  place  it  on  your  shield ;  and  when 
men  ask  you  by  what  right,  answer,  'By  order  of 
the  King.'  " 

At  this  moment  the  tempest  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  climax;  a  loud  and  hollow  rever- 
beration, like  the  sound  of  a  blow  upon  a  brass 
timbrel,  shook  the  palace  to  its  foundations  and 
the  whole  firmament  pulsated  with  flame.  But 
Bernardo  heeded  not :  with  his  features  locked  in  a 
cold,  impassive  silence,  he  passed  out. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Bernardo   Leads  tKe  GotKs  against 
Charlemagne 

[HE    day    is   warm   and   genial,    the 
landscape  flushed  with  green,  and 
such    homely    blossoms    as    haw- 
thorne    and    elder,     briony     and 
honeysuckle,  flourish  in  the  fields. 

An  immense  plain  spreads  around,  verdant  with 
pastures,  gardens  and  huertas  full  of  fruit- trees  and 
clumps  of  planes  and  oaks,  while  across  it,  flung 
like  a  silver  ribbon,  flows  the  current  of  the  Torio 
River.  Hayfields,  ploughed  land,  and  squares  of 
maize  and  yellowing  rye,  follow  each  other  in  its 
course,  divided  by  groves  and  wooded  hedgerows 
rich  in  roadside  flowers — Canterbury  bells,  pink 
willow- wand,  the  humble  star  daisy,  and  the  wild 
rose. 

Behind  rise  the  turrets  and  spires  of  Leon,  ruddy 
in  colour,  on  a  gentle  slope  crowned  by  the  cathe- 
dral backed  by  a  waving  line  of  hills  fading  into  the 
darkness  of  fantastic  rocks,  rising  to  the  giddy 
heights  of  the  Asturian  mountains  capped  with 
snow. 

Nor  is  the  fairness  of  the  earth  less  than  the 
214 


GOTHS  LED  AGAINST  CHARLEMAGNE  215 

brilliancy  of  the  sky.  Not  a  cloud  floats  on  the 
horizon  to  mar  the  view, — winding  in  and  out 
among  the  trees,  the  dazzle  of  glittering  helmets 
in  the  sun;  sleek  war-horses,  cased  in  armour, 
curveting  gaily  spite  of  the  heavy  weight  laid 
on  them;  flags  and  emblazoned  shields  break- 
ing through  masses  of  bright  lances  held  aloft, 
battle-axes  and  broadswords — each  knight  as  he 
passes,  followed  by  his  esquire,  trumpeter  and 
page,  riding  forth  on  the  sacred  mission,  led  by 
Bernardo  del  Carpio. 

As  one  man  the  city  follows  him  as  he  rides  forth 
from  the  gate  on  a  white  charger,  the  banner  of 
Leon  waving  before  him,  a  gold  lion  rampant  on  a 
field  of  red.  "It  is  the  standard  of  Leon,"  say 
those  around.  ' '  The  king  allows  him  to  bear  it — a 
high  honour  to  a  nameless  knight  who,  men  say, 
never  came  legally  into  the  world. " 

Now  cries  of  "Bernardo!  Bernardo!"  rend  the 
air;  the  brazen  trumpets  sound,  the  shrill  clarion 
calls  to  arms — and  as  he  hears  the  warlike  sound, 
the  peasant  quits  his  team  to  grasp  a  spear,  the 
shepherd-  watching  his  flock  by  running  streams 
flings  down  his  crook  and  rushes  forward,  the 
youth  whose  limbs  have  never  felt  the  weight  of 
armour,  the  old  men  who  sit  at  home  at  ease — all 
swell  the  crowd,  as  mountain  torrents  receive 
neighbouring  rills. 

"We  are  born  free,"  they  say,  "and  free  we 
will  remain.  No  Frankish  king  shall  rule  over 
Leon.     Anointed  cravens  may  barter  the  land,  but 


216  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

under  the  lion  who  bathes  his  paws  in  blood  we 
will  fight  for  'our  land.'  " 

Three  thousand  men  follow  Bernardo  to  the 
field,  all  animated  with  the  spirit  of  their  chief. 
The  secret  infamy  which  hangs  over  his  birth  he 
dares  not  fathom,  nor  why  his  father  is  concealed, 
or  in  what  manner  he  is  connected  with  the  king ! 
Some  foul  injustice  has  clearly  been  done  him. 
The  thought  of  it  rankles  deeply  in  his  soul.  With 
this  feeling  comes  a  growing  hatred  to  Alonso, 
who  at  least  has  been  privy  to  this  concealment, 
if  not  the  cause. 

Then,  ashamed  of  permitting  his  own  private 
griefs  to  intrude  on  the  noble  mission  he  has  in 
hand,  Bernardo  calls  to  Don  Favila  to  ride  beside 
him. 

"What  will  the  king  say  to  this  armament, 
amigo?'1''  are  his  first  words.  "Surely  he  will  now 
understand  the  vainness  of  his  purpose!  In  what 
disposition  did  you  leave  him?" 

"I  think  he  is  much  shaken, "  is  the  reply,  "but 
there  are  secret  reasons.  You,  my  lord,  best 
know  his  mind." 

Bernardo  heaves  a  deep  sigh. 

"Talk  not  to  me  of  him, "  he  exclaims,  "he  is  a 
hypocrite,  unworthy  of  an  honest  man's  regard." 
Then,  seeing  the  look  of  amazement  on  Don 
Favila's  face,  "Yes!  by  Santiago!  such  is  my 
mind,  and  I  will  fling  my  mailed  glove  into  his 
cursed  face  and  tell  him  so,  if  I  return  from  the 
present  adventure." 


GOTHS  LED  AGAINST  CHARLEMAGNE  217 

More  and  more  amazed,  Don  Favila  listens. 
"  If  it  were  not  so  early  in  the  day,  good  Bernardo, 
I  should  think  you  had  quaffed  too  many  beakers 
of  wine  to  our  success." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  has  wine  in  him?" 
answers  Bernardo,  bitterly.  "If  wine  would 
drown  my  care,  I  would  drink  a  sack. " 

"Tell  me,"  continues  Favila,  burning  with 
curiosity,  "by  our  long  friendship,  what  is  there 
amiss  between  you  and  King  Alonso?  You  were 
wont  to  love  him  well. " 

"Then  it  is  past,"  replies  Bernardo,  chafing 
under  the  questioning.  "I  hate  him  now.  It  is 
possible  you  can  judge  of  the  reason  better  than  I. 
I  pray  you,  good  Favila,  ask  me  no  more;  it  is 
useless  looking  back." 

Don  Favila,  as  a  prudent  man,  held  his  peace. 
Although  of  a  gentle  and  courteous  nature,  there 
was  that  in  Bernardo  that  no  one  dared  to  cross. 
A  look  of  sullen  wrath  is  on  his  face  he  has  never 
seen  before.  Has  he  at  last  discovered  the  secret 
of  his  birth  and  the  cruelty  of  the  chaste  king? 

Now  the  little  army,  passing  by  pleasant  hedge- 
rows and  fertile  fields,  reaches  the  borders  of  the 
Ordega,  crossed  by  a  wooden  bridge  so  narrow  that 
much  time  is  occupied  by  the  passage  of  the  troops. 

A  sound  of  the  approach  of  many  horsemen, 
galloping  rapidly,  comes  from  the  road  they  have 
just  traversed,  and  clouds  of  dust  from  the  dry  soil 
sweep  to  the  height  of  the  tree-tops.     Voices  are 


2i8  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

heard,  and  the  roll  of  drums  and  the  call  of 
trumpets,  but  nothing  as  yet  is  seen, 

"We  are  set  upon  by  foes, "  shouts  Don  Ricardo, 
hastily  seeking  out  Bernardo,  who,  with  a  set 
white  face,  watches,  immovable  in  the  saddle, 
the  passage  of  the  knights  across  the  bridge. 

"Foes,"  answers  Bernardo,  with  a  mocking 
laugh;  "methinks,  Ricardo,  you  are  suddenly 
grown  blind  not  to  recognise  your  countrymen. 
These  are  no  foes,  but  our  own  townsmen  come 
out  to  join  us. " 

As  he  speaks,  nearer  and  nearer  comes  the 
clamour,  and  louder  and  louder  upon  the  breeze 
rises  the  cry,  "El  Rey,  El  Rey"  echoing  back 
from  a  thousand  voices  along  the  line. 

"  Yes,  it  is  he,"  says  Bernardo  to  those  around. 
"I  know  him  by  his  helmet,  set  with  gems,  and 
the  fur  collar  over  his  corselet.  By  the  rood,  it  is 
well  he  acknowledges  his  wrong." 

And  as  he  turns  his  eyes  upon  Don  Alonso,  such 
a  loathing  possesses  him,  nothing  but  the  cause  he 
has  in  hand  keeps  his  hand  from  his  weapon  to 
avenge  his  wrong. 

Meanwhile  the  king's  arrival  in  face  of  the 
army  is  greeted  by  a  shout  so  long  and  loud 
mountain  and  hill  ring  with  it. 

In  the  tall,  thin  warrior,  with  a  long  white 
beard,  nobly  wearing  a  regal  diadem  about  his 
burnished  helmet,  no  one  would  recognise  the 
emaciated  anchorite  who  scourged  and  starved 
himself.    The  words  of  Bernardo  have  stung  him  to 


GOTHS  LED  AGAINST  CHARLEMAGNE  219 


the  quick.  He  has  cast  off  the  delusions  which 
filled  his  brain ;  the  French  monks  have  been  sent 
whence  they  came,  the  armed  messenger  dis- 
missed, the  pledges  given  to  Charlemagne  have 
been  withdrawn.  Even  the  horror  of  his  sister's  sin 
in  the  person  of  Bernardo  has  yielded  to  the  noble- 
ness of  his  conduct,  and  like  a  man  distraught 
suddenly  restored  to  his  right  senses,  he  has  ridden 
out  to  join  him. 

The  shouts  of  the  crowd  (for  the  distance  from 
Leon  has  not  prevented  many  of  the  citizens 
following  the  soldiers)  for  a  time  drowns  every 
other  sound. 

Again  and  again  King  Alonso  bows  to  the  saddle- 
bow, and  again  and  again  from  three  thousand 
voices  comes  the  cry,  "  Viva  el  Reyl  Leon! 
Leon  to  the  rescue!" 

Nor,  in  this  moment  of  triumph,  as  he  lingers  on 
the  brink  of  the  river,  proudly  contemplating  the 
gallant  body  of  knights,  who  crowd  round  him  to 
touch,  if  possible,  the  nobler  charger  which  bears 
him,  his  mailed  hands,  his  rich  saddle-cloth,  and 
the  royal  standard  borne  before  him,  does  he  forget 
Bernardo. 

Calling  to  him  in  a  loud  voice  he  commands  him 
to  leave  the  van  of  the  army  and  place  himself  at 
his  side. 

Then  raising  the  crossed  hilt  of  his  jewelled 
sword  before  his  face,  he  utters  a  brief  prayer,  and 
turns  towards  the  thousands  of  eager  visages 
upraised  to  his. 


220  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"  0  men  of  Leon, "  are  his  words,  contemplating 
them  with  moistening  eyes,  "to  this  brave  knight — 
Bernardo  del  Carpio — I  confide  the  land.  Where 
he  leads,  follow!" 


CHAPTER  XX 
DeatK  of  Sir  Roland  tKe  Brave 

N  front  of  the  many  valleys  opening 
out  from  under  the  dark  range 
of  the  Pyrenees,  they  met — the 
Gaul  and  the  Spaniard.  The 
Emperor  Charlemagne  with  good  cause  curses 
the  fickleness  of  the  King  of  Leon,  who  had 
invited  him  to  inherit  his  kingdom,  and  instead 
came  out  to  offer  him  battle.  Personally,  he  is  not 
mentioned  as  taking  part  in  the  battle — indeed,  it 
is  said  he  was  encamped  eight  miles  off,  near 
Fontarabia,  but  he  sent  forward  the  flower  of  his 
chivalry,  those  doughty  paladins,  to  be  sung  by  the 
romancer os  and  troubadours  to  all  time :  Guarinos, 
ferocious  Ferragol,  Sir  Oliver  the  Gentle,  handsome 
Gayferos,  and  Roland  the  Brave,  who  went  mad  for 
the  love  of  Angelica,  mounted  on  a  powerful  steed, 
which  bounds  and  caracoles  as  if  preparing  for  a 
tourney,  firmly  ruled  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  other  he  carried  aloft  his  famous  sword  Dur- 
indana,  followed  by  his  vassals  and  retainers,  in 
short  hauberks  and  upright  caps,  with  round 
targets  like  the  Moors. 

The    two    armies   met    on  undulating  ground, 


222  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


descending  from  the  chain  of  the  Pyrenees  in  front 
of  the  Pass  of  Roncesvalles — through  which  the 
French  had  marched  into  Spain  confident  of 
victory — a  close  and  terrible  defile,  narrow  and 
deep,  cleft  into  precipitous  cliffs  following  from 
St.  Jean  de  Luz  and  the  defile  of  Guvarni  on 
the  French  side,  among  almost  impassable 
gorges,  which  back  the  city  of  Pampeluna  close 
on  the  province  of  Cantabria,  the  land  of 
Pelayo. 

As  a  forest  of  lances  and  spears  set  on  a  plain  of 
gold  did  the  glittering  helmets  look  from  afar  in 
the  radiance  of  the  sunshine,  darkened  by  clouds 
of  arrows,  and  the  blades  of  javelins  and  lances 
cutting  the  light  of  day  as  the  ranks  closed  in 
deadly  strife  of  quivering  spears  and  flying  pennons 
falling  round  wounded  horses,  the  blast  of  trum- 
pets and  cries  of  dying  men. 

And  gallantly  did  the  King  of  Leon  bear  him- 
self, the  jewelled  crown  on  his  morion  shining  out  in 
the  thick  of  the  battle,  Favila  and  Ricardo  fight- 
ing by  his  side,  when  lo!  a  company  of  Gallic  lords 
bore  down  with  such  force  as  to  leave  the  king 
alone,  face  to  face  with  a  knight  in  dark  armour, 
taller  than  the  rest,  a  steel  helmet  pressing  on  his 
fiery  eyes,  and  the  bars  of  his  vizor  raised  that  all 
might  know  him,  as  he  brandished  a  sword  no 
other  man  could  wield. 

"Where,"  cries  this  terrible  paladin  known  as 
Sir  Roland  the  Brave,  flashing  fire  as  he  whirls 
his  good  sword  Durindana  in  the  air,    "is  that 


DEATH  OF  ROLAND  THE  BRAVE     223 

perjured  Goth,  Alonso  of  Leon,  who  bids  strangers 
to  his  land  and  seeks  to  slay  them?  " 

"If  you  mean  me,"  answers  Alonso,  spurring 
forward,  "  I  am  here  to  answer  the  charge. " 

"Then  make  short  shrift,  false  king,"  cries 
Roland,  "for  traitor  and  felon  you  are  to  Charle- 
magne, and  as  such  you  shall  die. " 

In  courage  the  king  is  not  wanting,  but  he  stands 
almost  alone;  several  of  the  knights  about  him 
are  dismounted,  and  swarms  of  the  enemy  are 
gathering  about  them  where  they  lie.  Already 
the  swords  strike  fire,  but  he  is  soon  in  evil  plight ; 
Durindana  has  cleft  the  crown  on  his  head-piece 
and  wounded  his  good  charger.  The  weakness 
of  his  blows  show  that  he  is  no  match  for  such  an 
antagonist.  Alonso  staggers  in  the  saddle,  when 
Bernardo,  pounding  through  the  centre  of  the 
Gothic  knights  as  with  the  shock  of  a  thunderbolt, 
spurs  forward. 

"Shame  on  you,  Sir  Paladin,"  he  shouts,  "as 
a  craven.  Are  you  blind,  that  you  see  not  the 
king's  arm  is  stiff  with  age?  Turn  now  the  fury 
of  your  weapon  on  me,  Bernardo  del  Carpio. " 

"  I  know  you  not,  vain  boy, "  is  the  reply,  eyeing 
Bernardo  with  disdain.  "Get  you  a  beard  upon 
your  chin  before  you  feel  the  steel  of  Durindana. " 

"Come  on!"  shouts  Bernardo,  glaring  at  him 
through  the  bars  of  his  helmet.  "I  promise  you, 
you  shall  know  me  all  too  soon  for  your  glory.  I 
am  a  man  in  search  of  death. " 

The  onslaught  is  so  furious  that  blood  flows 


224  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

in  the  first  encounter;  the  horses  are  dis- 
abled by  the  shock.  To  extricate  themselves  is 
the  work  of  a  moment,  and  on  their  feet  they 
fight. 

Then  Bernardo,  round  whose  head  the  good 
sword  Durindana  flashes  dangerously  near,  seizes 
a  battle-axe  from  the  hands  of  a  warrior  lying 
lifeless  at  his  feet,  and  gathering  all  his  strength, 
deals  such  a  blow  on  Sir  Roland  that  the  steel 
pierces  down  upon  his  neck,  and  stretches  him, 
mortally  wounded,  on  the  ground. 

Smitten  to  death,  like  a  pious  Christian  he 
prepares  to  yield  up  his  soul  to  God.  But  first, 
collecting  all  his  strength,  he  clutches  his  faithful 
sword  and  thus  addresses  it:  "O  sword  of  un- 
paralleled brightness,  fair  Durindana,  with  hilt 
of  ivory  and  cross  of  gold,  on  which  is  graven  the 
name  of  God — whom  now  wilt  thou  call  master? 
He  that  possessed  thee  was  never  conquered  be- 
fore; nor  daunted  by  foes,  nor  appalled  by  phan- 
toms. O  happy  sword,  never  was  a  fellow  made 
like  thee!  That  thou  shalt  never  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  craven  or  an  infidel,  I  will  smite  thee  on 
a  rock  in  twain."  And  so  he  did,  in  the  throes 
of  death  as  he  was,  cleaving  the  weapon  in  twain 
and  flinging  it  afar.  The  "Breach  of  Roland," 
in  the  Pyrenees,  is  noted  from  that  day.  Then, 
raising  the  horn  slung  over  his  corselet  to  his  lips, 
with  fast-ebbing  breath  he  blew  a  blast  so  shrill 
that  the  sound  reached  even  to  Charlemagne's 
camp,  who,  ignorant  of  the  great  disaster,  lay  in 


*<  *-v„.     &  .01'  **•■%  s,       &*»!  ._ 


DEATH  OF  ROLAND  THE  BRAVE     22: 


the  valley  of  Fontarabia  awaiting  the  issue  of 
the  battle. 

At  length  those  eyes  called  by  the  minstrels,  "the 
bright  stars  of  battle  and  victory, "  close  in  death, 
the  hands  drop  which  could  root  up  live  trees,  the 
noble  form  stiffens  as  he  lay  with  outstretched  arms 
in  the  form  of  the  cross,  the  sword-hilt  of  Dur- 
indana  and  the  bugle  by  his  side. 

Not  only  Roland,  but  the  gentle  Oliver  lost  his 
life,  and  the  grim  admiral,  Guarino,  was  taken 
prisoner,  so  that  the  Franks  lost  heart  and  re- 
treated into  the  mountain  paths  by  which  they 
came.  A  terrible  massacre  ensues,  led  by  Ber- 
nardo, and  to  this  day  Roncesvalles  is  known  as 
the  "Valley  of  the  Pass  of  Blood. " 

VOL.  I — 15 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Bernardo  Learns  tHe  Secret  of  His 
Birth. — Joins  tHe  Moors 

ND  now  Bernardo  is  home  again  in 

the    red- walled    streets    of    Leon. 

Others  long  for  life,  he  has  sought 

for  death;  but  the  dark  angel  has 

not  answered  to  his  call. 

As  he  paces  along  a  narrow  path  bordering  the 

city  walls,  above  him  the  low  turrets  which  Witica 

had  spared,  looking  over  to  the  green  plains  of 

Galicia,  he  knows  that  he  has  won  himself  a  name 

as  great  as  that  of  Pelayo,  but  a  dark  frown  is  on 

his  young  face,  and  gloomy  thoughts  chase  each 

other  through  his  brain. 

How  changed  from  the  frank  and  joyous  youth 

is  this  dark-visaged  warrior!     He  shuns  all  his 

former  friends ;  to  no  one  will  he  speak,  and  least  of 

all  to  the  king,  whom  he  justly  accuses  as  the 

cause  of  his  dishonour. 

"What  matters  the  splendour  of  my  deeds, "  he 

tells  himself,  speaking  aloud,  "when  the  mystery 

of  my  birth  shuts  me  out  from  knightly  deeds? 

Who  will  cross  swords  with  Bernardo,  save  in  the 

tumult  of  the  battlefield?     The  fair  face  of  woman 

226 


BERNARDO  LEARNS  SECRET  OF  BIRTH   227 

never  will  shine  on  me;  no  love  token  touch  my 
hand,  no  child  call  me  father.  O  cruel  parents, 
could  not  all  my  achievements  move  you  to  own  a 
son  so  long  forgotten?  Who  are  you?  Are  you 
dead,  to  remain  unmoved  when  the  name  of 
Bernardo  rings  throughout  Spain?  Who  knows" 
— and  his  mind  shifts  to  another  train  of  thought — 
"but  that  my  father  himself  may  feel  that  his 
name  will  dishonour  me?  " 

"0  Bernardo,  wrong  not  your  father,"  speaks 
a  low  voice  behind  him.  "It  is  not  his  fault,  the 
deep  vaults  of  a  prison  cover  him. " 

Bernardo,  who  has  not  realised  that  he  had  been 
thinking  aloud,  turns  with  amazement  and  finds 
himself  face  to  face  with  Dona  Sol,  an  ancient 
gentlewoman,  camarera  to  Queen  Berta. 

"Now  may  the  saints  bless  thee,  venerable 
Senora, "  he  cries,  seizing  her  wrinkled  hands, 
"if  you  can  tell  me  aught  of  that  which  never 
leaves  my  thoughts." 

"All  is  known  to  me,"  is  the  answer.  "The 
king  was  but  a  child  when  I  first  came  to  the 
palace,  but,"  and  she  moves  to  and  fro  uneasily, 
and  searches  around  cautiously  with  her  eyes, 
"if  I  should  be  suspected  of  having  disclosed  the 
secret,  nothing  but  my  death  would  satisfy  the 
king.  These  ramparts  are  too  public  for  such 
speech.  Come  into  the  shadow  of  that  tower 
yonder,  where  no  one  can  hear  us. " 

Bernardo,  who  had  faced  without  a  thrill  the  flash 
of  Durindana,  grows  pale  and  trembles  like  a  girl. 


228  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


"Be  calm,  Bernardo,"  says  the  lady,  about 
whose  head  and  neck  a  long  lace  mantilla  is 
folded,  disclosing  among  the  folds  a  worn  and 
gentle  face,  marked  with  the  trace  of  many  sorrows. 
"No  base  blood  is  in  your  veins,  not  a  knight  in 
Leon  is  more  nobly  born. " 

"Go  on,  go  on!"  urges  Bernardo,  wringing 
her  hands,  "more  than  my  life  is  in  your 
words." 

"The  blood  of  kings,"  she  continues,  "is  in 
your  veins. " 

"Ha!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  "then  my  suspicions 
are  true?  The  king  has  ever  favoured  me.  Is  he 
my  father?     Why  should  he  conceal  it?" 

"No,  no,"  answers  Dona  Sol,  "the  king,  dear 
Bernardo,  is  not  your  father,  but  you  are  of  his 
blood.  That  keeps  every  one  silent  who  would 
dare  to  tell  you,  for  the  king  has  forbidden  it,  on 
pain  of  death!" 

"Then  who  is  my  father?" 

"Don  Sancho  Diaz,  Count  of  Saldana, "  an- 
swers the  Duena,  "the  greatest  noble  in  Leon,  and 
your  mother  is  the  Infanta  Dona  Ximena,  sister 
of  the  king." 

"But  the  king  called  me  Bastard!"  cries  Ber- 
nardo. 

"It  was  a  true  marriage  all  the  same,"  replies 
the  camarera,  "only,  as  Dona  Ximena  was  de- 
stined to  be  the  Abbess  of  the  Convent  of  San 
Marcos,  the  king  considered  it  an  adulterous 
union,   she   being   dedicated   to   the   Church.     I 


BERNARDO  LEARNS  SECRET  OF  BIRTH   229 


should  know  all  about  it,  seeing  I  stood  by  them 
at  the  altar." 

"You!  you!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  passing  from 
astonishment  to  astonishment,  as,  following  her 
step  by  step,  she  draws  aside,  alarmed  at  his  threat- 
ening countenance.     ' '  Why  did  you  never  speak ? ' ' 

"Because  your  mother,  alas!  is  dead,  and  your 
father" — here  Dona  Sol  stopped,  her  courage 
failed.  She  heartily  wished  she  had  never  under- 
taken the  dangerous  office.  She  was  as  one  who, 
having  let  loose  the  bulwarks  of  a  mighty  flood, 
stands  trembling  by,  to  contemplate  the  havoc  he 
has  made.  How  was  she  to  tell  the  truth  to  this 
impetuous  soldier,  standing  over  her  trembling  in 
every  limb? 

"My  mother  dead!"  repeats  Bernardo  in  a  deep 
low  voice,  his  fingers  grasping  the  hilt  of  a  dagger 
at  his  waist,  his  haggard  face  turned  on  her,  "and 
my  father,  where?  " 

"Alas!  I  know  not,"  sobs  the  terrified  Duefia, 
bursting  into  tears.  "For  long  he  lay  in  the  castle 
of  Luna,  imprisoned,  but  if  he  is  alive  still  I  do  not 
know." 

"Then  I  will  speedily  discover!"  says  Bernardo, 
and  without  a  word  he  rushes  from  her  presence 

Alonso,  returned  from  the  wars,  has  resumed 
his  former  mode  of  life.  With  his  armour  he  has 
doffed  the  sentiments  of  a  man.  He  is  too  old  to 
change.  Again  monks  and  friars  gather  round 
him,  and  flatter  him  with  praises  of  the  virtue  of 


23o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

continence  which  will  make  his  name  illustrious. 
Again  he  fasts  and  flagellates  himself  as  before. 

The  thought  of  what  he  owes  Bernardo  troubles 
him,  but  not  for  a  moment  does  the  obstinacy  of 
his  resolution  relax.  Never  will  he  acknowledge 
him,  or  liberate  his  father. 

It  is  evening,  the  fretted  towers  of  the  Gothic 
cathedral  glisten  against  a  bank  of  heavy  mists, 
rapidly  welling  up  from  the  south.  The  clouds 
deepen  with  the  twilight.  The  lustre  of  a  stormy 
sunset  is  fading  out.  The  sun  disappears,  and 
darker  and  denser  shadows  gather  and  obscure 
the  light.  Low  thunder  rumbles  in  the  distance 
and  a  few  heavy  raindrops  have  fallen. 

Again,  with  rapid  steps,  Bernardo  traverses  the 
Roman  court  of  the  palace ;  again  he  is  challenged 
by  the  guards  as  he  passes.  Neither  Don  Ricardo 
nor  Favila  is  there.  Ricardo  was  badly  wounded 
at  Roncesvalles,  and  the  gay  Favila  has  gone  to 
lead  a  sally  against  the  Moors,  those  ever-pressing 
adversaries,  not  to  be  wholly  overcome  for  many 
a  long  year. 

But  the  dog  Poilo  is  there,  the  noble  hound  who 
forgets  neither  friend  nor  foe.  Wagging  his  tail, 
he  leaps  forward  and  with  sharp  barks  of  joy 
flings  himself  upon  Bernardo,  licking  his  hands  and 
thrusting  his  large  nose  between  his  fingers. 

But  Bernardo  passes  and  heeds  him  not;  nay, 
in  his  fierce  mood,  he  raises  his  hand  as  if  to  strike 
him,  as  barring  his  desperate  path — but  he  for- 
bears as  he  meets  a  keen  pair  of  faithful  eyes  fixed 


BERNARDO  LEARNS  SECRET  OF  BIRTH  231 


on  his  face,  which,  if  a  dog  can  shed  tears  as  some 
pretend,  are  filled  with  moisture  at  the  rude  rebuff; 
then,  retiring  to  a  distance,  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  Poilo  sadly  watches  the  figure  of  Bernardo  as 
he  strides  hastily  onwards  up  the  stairs  to  seek  the 
king. 

He  is  seated  at  a  table,  in  company  with  a  monk, 
and  is  at  that  moment  employed  in  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  an  illuminated  missal,  on  the  value 
of  which  he  is  descanting.  The  same  aged  chamber- 
lain, who  so  stoutly  maintained  the  justice  of  the 
king's  conduct  towards  Dona  Ximena,  peaceably 
slumbers  in  a  corner,  his  ivory  wand  of  office  in 
his  hand. 

Suddenly  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  monk 
ceases,  for,  raising  the  arras  which  hangs  before 
the  entrance,  Bernardo  del  Carpio  stands  in  the 
doorway.  His  cap  is  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  are 
turned  on  the  ground,  but  his  compressed  lips  and 
tightly  knitted  hands  betray  his  agitation. 

Since  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles,  Bernardo 
and  the  king  have  not  met  alone.  The  debt  of 
gratitude  he  owes  him  has  envenomed  the  king's 
mind.  His  tenderness  has  turned  to  jealousy 
and  suspicion. 

"How  now,  Bernardo,"  he  says  in  an  angry- 
voice,  raising  his  eyes  from  the  manuscript,  "do 
you  presume  so  much  on  your  success  that  you 
dare  to  come  unbidden  into  my  presence?  " 

"Perhaps  I  do, "  replies  Bernardo,  advancing  in- 
to the  room  and  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  the 


232  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


table  in  front  of  the  king,  spite  of  the  feeble  efforts 
of  the  old  chamberlain,  who  has  waked  up  and 
endeavours  to  prevent  it. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  the  right. " 

"Ha!  what  right?"  demands  Alonso,  gazing  at 
him  curiously  from  under  the  bushy  fringe  of  his 
eyebrows. 

"The  right  of  your  nearest  of  blood,"  answers 
Bernardo,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  king. 

"Now  curses  on  you!"  exclaims  Alonso  rising, 
and  stretching  out  his  thin  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  image  of  one  who  represented  to  him  mortal 
sin.     "  It  is  a  lie.     Who  can  have  told  you?  " 

"No  matter,"  answers  Bernardo;  "suffice  it 
that  I  know." 

"Talk  not  to  me  of  kinship.  You  have  no 
name  save  that  of  the  traitor  who  bore  you. " 

"Nay,  drive  me  not  too  far,  old  man.  You  are 
my  king  and  I  have  saved  your  life.  Your  horse 
was  wounded  under  you,  the  sword  of  Roland  was 
at  your  throat,  your  blood  flowed  like  water  when 
I  ventured  mine. " 

1 '  Seize  him,  seize  him ! ' '  shouts  Alonso.  ' '  Guards 
where  are  you?  What?"  turning  to  the  chamber- 
lain, "do  you  favour  this  braggart?"  But  no 
one  stirs.  The  monk  glided  out  at  the  first  en- 
trance of  Bernardo,  and  the  old  chamberlain, 
whose  peaceful  life  has  never  led  him  into  scenes 
of  strife,  stands  with  open  eyes,  transfixed  with 
terror. 

"Now   listen,    Don   Alonso,"    cries   Bernardo, 


A   MOORISH    GATEWAY. 
(Burgos.) 


BERNARDO  JOINS  MOORS  233 

mastering  the  rage  which,  like  a  whirlwind, 
seized  him  at  sight  of  the  king.  "Either  on  the 
instant  you  promise  to  give  into  my  hand  my 
father,  Don  Sancho  of  Saldafia,  or  I  will  fortify 
my  castle  of  Carpio  and  take  service  with  the 
Moor.  I  am  at  least  near  enough  the  throne  in 
blood  not  to  serve  a  liar  and  a  hypocrite. " 

These  words  are  spoken  slowly.  His  voice  has 
a  strange  ring  in  it.  "Now,  by  this  blade,  which 
I  have  proved  owes  no  lord  but  Heaven  and  me, 
King,  Conde,  or  Grandeza,  swear,  King  Don 
Alonso,  to  set  my  father  free." 

"Nay,  Bernardo,"  answers  the  king,  putting 
by  the  weapon  with  his  hand.  "  Not  in  this  guise 
let  us  speak." 

His  look  and  manner  have  suddenly  changed. 
He  is  roused  into  alarm  at  Bernardo's  threat  of 
taking  service  with  the  Moor,  not  in  his  case  only 
but  in  many  others  the  last  refuge  of  disappointed 
patriots. 

"Your  father  shall  be  free,  according  to  your 
desire.  I  give  you  my  royal  word.  On  the 
seventh  day  from  this,  you  yourself  shall  meet 
him  at  Salamanca.  Of  the  imprisonment  of  the 
Conde  de  Saldafia  and  my  treatment  of — " 
(even  now  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  pronounce 
Dona  Ximena's  name),  "I  am  answerable  to  God 
and  to  the  Church  alone.  My  conscience  absolves 
me ;  my  reasons  are  my  own.  No  oath  is  needful, " 
seeing  that  Bernardo  still  holds  his  sword.  "Let 
us  part  friends." 


234  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"No,  by  the  Holy  Virgin  of  Compostela,  we 
never  can  be  friends.  You  have  blasted  my  life 
and  that  of  those  who  bore  me.  I  would  die  a 
hundred  deaths  ere  such  a  thing  could  be. " 

"Bethink  you  of  my  former  kindness  to  you," 
urges  the  king.  "You  bore  the  standard  of  Leon 
in  the  wars." 

No  answer  comes  from  Bernardo.  There  was 
that  in  the  sudden  change  of  the  king's  demeanour 
which  roused  his  suspicions.  He  liked  not  the 
smoothness  of  Alonso's  speech  nor  the  smile  he  had 
called  up.     Could  he  be  mocking  him ? 

"You  hesitate!"  cries  Alonso.  "Are  you  bold 
enough  to  doubt  a  king's  word?" 

Still  no  answer,  but  Bernardo's  eyes  gather  upon 
him,  as  though  he  would  read  his  soul.  Then, 
boldly  as  he  had  come,  he  turns  on  his  heel,  and 
raising  the  arras,  passes  out. 

Upon  the  broad  corn-bearing  country  about 
Salamanca  a  pavilion  is  erected,  by  order  of  the 
king,  at  the  spot  where  Bernardo  is  to  meet  his 
father. 

With  him  are  Don  Ricardo  and  Favila,  by  the 
king's  command,  and  a  company  of  knights  "to 
do  honour  to  the  meeting  of  a  father  and  long- 
parted  son." 

As  they  draw  near  the  city  walls,  the  noise  of 
timbrels  and  trumpets  sounds  on  the  breeze,  and  a 
glittering  band  of  fifty  guards  with  naked  swords, 
and  a  troop  of  knights  wearing  their  vizors  up,  are 


BERNARDO  JOINS  MOORS  235 


seen  advancing  along  the  Roman  bridge  of  many- 
arches  which  crosses  the  river. 

Foremost  among  them  rides  a  splendidly  ac- 
coutred figure  in  a  coat  of  mail;  long  sleeves  of 
crimson  velvet  fall  from  his  shoulders,  a  shield  with 
his  cognisance  catches  the  light,  a  hood  and  collar 
of  mail  conceal  his  face ;  his  lower  limbs  are  sheathed 
like  the  body  in  plates  of  steel,  a  broadsword 
and  poniard  hang  at  the  saddle-bow,  and  his  horse, 
a  massive  charger,  is  enveloped,  like  his  master, 
in  plaited  mail. 

When  Bernardo  beholds  this  superbly  armed 
cavalier  slowly  passing  the  bridge,  the  linked 
bridle  of  his  war  horse  held  by  two  pages,  and 
an  esquire  behind  carrying  his  lance  and  shield, 
"O  God!"  is  all  he  can  say;  "it  is  the  Count  of 
Saldana.  He  is  coming  at  last — my  father," 
and  he  spurs  his  horse  into  a  wild  gallop. 

Already  he  has  dismounted  to  kiss  his  father's 
hand,  already  he  clasps  his  mailed  gauntlet  and 
looks  into  his  face.  Great  God!  It  is  the  livid 
countenance  of  a  corpse!  The  dead  weight  of 
Bernardo's  hand  causes  the  body  to  swerve  and 
fall  forward  upon  the  saddle-bow. 

Alonso  has  kept  his  word,  the  Count  of  Saldana 
is  given  free  into  his  hands,  but  he  has  been  secretly 
murdered  in  prison,  and  it  is  his  dressed-up  body 
that  appears  before  his  son. 

A  cry  of  agony  comes  from  Bernardo. 

"0  father,  Don  Sancho  Diaz,"  are  his  words, 
as  he  reverently  replaces  the  body  on  the  saddle  f 


236  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"in  an  evil  hour  did  you  beget  me;  I  have  given 
everything  for  you,  and  now  I  have  lost  all. " 

To  his  stronghold,  the  castle  of  Carpio,  Bernardo 
carries  his  father's  corpse,  and  places  it  in  the 
centre  of  the  chapel  before  the  altar.  Beside  it  he 
kneels,  a  broken-hearted  man. 

There  lies  the  parent  he  has  so  long  sought  in 
vain,  and  whose  existence  was  a  mystery  to  him 
from  his  birth.  Dead  he  is,  and  yet  to  this  lonely 
man  something  tangible  is  before  him  even  in  his 
corpse — something  with  which  he  can  commune 
as  with  his  own. 

After  a  while  rising  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
bier,  Bernardo  unsheathes  the  sword  with  which 
he  slew  Roland  and  saved  the  king  at  Roncesvalles. 

"O  sword!"  he  cries,  "my  trusted  blade.  In 
my  hand  you  have  drunk  the  blood  of  France,  be 
strong  for  my  revenge!  Never  in  a  more  sacred 
cause  was  weapon  drawn.  My  father  thirsts  for 
your  sure  stroke,  and  his  son  can  wield  it.  Go  up, 
go  up,  thou  blessed  spirit,  into  the  hands  of  God, " 
and  he  stoops  to  kiss  the  dead  man's  hand,  "and 
fear  not  that  the  blood  flowing  in  Bernardo's  veins 
shall  be  spared  in  vengeance  on  Alonso. " 

Here  the  romancer os  leave  him.  He  did  not 
kill  the  king,  but  he  made  good  his  promise  of 
joining  the  Moors  in  revenge  for  his  father's 
murder,  and  died  fighting  against  the  king. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
El  Conde  de  Castila 


ASTILE  formed  no  part  of  the  new 
kingdom  of  Leon  and  was  governed 
by  its  own  lord.  And  here  we 
come  on  a  noticeable  history  of 
how  the  lion  was  added  to  the  castle  on  the  arms 
of  Spain  by  the  last  Conde  de  Castila,  Fernan 
Goncalze,  the  founder  of  the  line  of  the  present 
dynasty,  as  distinguished  from  that  of  the  early 
Gothic  kings,  who  died  out  in  the  person  of 
Bernardo  the  Third,  the  last  descendant  of  Pelayo, 

A.D.  999. 

Now  King  Sancho  the  Fat,  King  of  Leon,  a.d. 
955,  noticeably  a  heavy  and  lazy  man,  leaving 
much  in  the  hands  of  his  mother,  Dona  Teresa, 
is  jealous  of  the  power  of  Castila,  and  has  joined 
with  her  brother,  the  King  of  Navarre,  in  a  con- 
spiracy to  divide  it  between  them,  for  which  pur- 
pose the  count  is  invited  to  Leon  to  attend  the 
Cortes,  where  vital  matters  concerning  that  never- 
ending  strife  between  the  Christians  and  the  Moors 
are  to  be  considered. 

Fernan  comes,  but  misdoubting  Don  Sancho's 
good  faith,  brings  with  him  so  numerous  a  retinue 

237 


238  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


of  knights  and  men-at-arms  that  no  open  attack  on 
him  is  possible.  But  the  Queen  Dona  Teresa,  like 
a  wicked  fairy,  steps  in. 

"What  matters,"  says  she  to  the  fat  Sancho, 
speaking  within  the  recesses  of  the  same  Roman 
palace  where  Alonso  prayed  and  fasted  and  Ber- 
nardo raged — "what  matters  how  many  he  brings? 
We  must  befool  him,  flatter,  deceive — thus  you 
will  take  him.  Make  great  show  of  favour  to  him, 
my  son,  cover  him  with  false  words,  and  unsuspect- 
ing he  will  send  his  people  home. " 

The  Conde  de  Castila,  say  the  ballads,  was  a 
very  proper  man,  in  the  full  bloom  of  manhood, 
tall,  slender,  and  gay;  he  wore  his  mailed  armour 
with  a  wondrous  grace  on  a  perfect  form,  the  red 
plume  on  his  casque  gave  him  a  lordly  air,  and 
that  he  was  brave  and  romantic  his  history  will 
show. 

"Good,  my  kinsman,"  says  the  king  to  him 
after  many  soft  phrases,  "you  have  brought  with 
you  to  Leon  the  most  perfect  steed  that  ever  I  set 
eyes  on.  Methinks  if  I  bestrode  him  in  battle,  I 
could  laugh  at  the  Moors. " 

"Greatly  it  pleases  me,"  answers  the  Conde, 
"that  my  mare  should  win  your  praise;  she  is  a 
noble  animal ;  a  cross  with  an  Arab  mare.  I  pray 
you  to  accept  Sila  for  your  own. " 

"Nay,"  replies  the  wily  king,  "that  is  not  fair. 
Had  you  come  with  that  intention,  it  might  be 
otherwise;  but,  as  I  have  induced  you  to  so  gen- 
erous an  offer,  let  us  fix  a  just  price,  especially  as 


EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA  239 

the  hawk  you  wear  upon  your  wrist  has  greatly 
caught  my  fancy  too.  For  horse  and  hawk  we 
will  settle  thus :  If  the  sum  fixed  on  between  us  be 
not  paid  by  this  day  year,  it  shall  be  doubled  every 
succeeding  one." 

"As  you  will,  King  Don  Sancho, "  the  Conde 
makes  reply.  "I  would  have  given  them  both 
freely  to  you;  but  so  let  it  be." 

Showing  in  this  most  cunning  answer  that, 
great  hidalgo  as  he  was,  he  was  not  above  accept- 
ing such  moneys,  as  came  in  his  way.  Nor  did  the 
King  of  Leon  disdain  to  make  a  bargain  to  his 
mind,  which  gave  him  both  horse  and  hawk  for 
nothing,  seeing  that  he  and  his  wicked  mother 
did  not  intend  the  Conde  to  live. 

Here  they  are  interrupted  by  Queen  Dona 
Teresa  entering  the  chamber,  preceded  by  her 
Jefe  bearing  a  silver  wand  and  followed  by  her 
diiena.  A  stately  and  commanding  figure,  even 
in  middle  age,  and  splendid  in  her  apparel.  The 
rings  on  her  fingers  are  worth  a  king's  ransom;  her 
widow's  coif  is  sown  with  pearls,  and  the  edges  of 
her  long  robe  trimmed  with  a  dark  fur  and  jewels. 
A  very  imposing  personage,  Dona  Teresa,  who 
rules  both  her  son  and  in  the  palace  with  a  rod 
of  iron.  As  Regent,  she  attempted  to  do  the 
same  with  Castila,  but  the  Gothic  nobles  and  the 
Gothic  church  resisted,  and  put  her  down. 

"How  now?"  says  she,  seating  herself  on  a 
ponderous  chair,  heavy  with  carving,  as  the  others 


24o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

rise  and  make  low  obeisance,  her  duena,  in  a  stiff 
starched  black  robe  and  high  head-dress,  standing 
behind  her.  ' '  Your  talk  is  of  horses  and  of  hawks, 
when  such  serious  matter  presses  in  the  Cortes? 
Have  you  no  better  entertainment,"  turning  to 
her  son,  "for  the  Conde  when  Almanzor  reigns 
at  Cordoba,  and  harries  us  with  his  troops?  Ha- 
kim, the  book- worm,  was  an  easy  man,  and  spent 
his  time  in  buying  rare  manuscripts  and  parch- 
ments; but  this  one  is  a  fire-brand,  and  his  generals, 
Ghalid  and  the  Prince  of  Zab,  take  from  us  much 
booty  and  many  towns.  If  God  aid  us  not,  we 
shall  again  become  tributaries  to  the  Moors. " 

"Dofia  Teresa  the  Queen,"  answers  the  Conde, 
bowing  with  the  lofty  courtesy  natural  to  him,  in 
reply  to  this  somewhat  rude  and  boisterous  speech, 
"you  cannot  address  one  more  of  your  own  mind 
than  myself.  If  Don  Sancho  and  I  discoursed  on 
lighter  matters,  it  is  not  that  I  am  unmindful  of 
the  growing  power  of  the  infidels.  For  this  cause 
I  am  come  to  the  Cortes.  By  Santiago,  do  I  not 
know  that  your  royal  brother,  the  King  of  Na- 
varre, was  lately  brought  to  his  knees  by  this  same 
swarthy  Almanzor,  whom  the  devil  blast!  be- 
cause one  Moslem  woman  was  harboured  in  his 
land?" 

"Truly  I  have  cause  to  remember  it,"  is  her 
answer,  and  an  evil  twinkle  came  into  her  eyes. 
"What  say  you,  Conde,  to  a  closer  alliance  among 
the  Christians  with  Navarre,  a  marriage  for  in- 
stance, as  a  tighter  bond?     The  Gothic  nations 


EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA  241 

can  only  hope  to  drive  back  our  enemy  by  standing 
by  each  other.  King  Garcia  has  a  daughter,  very 
fair,  and  of  singular  courage  and  accomplishments. 
What  say  you,  whom  Nature  has  formed  at  all 
points  to  please  a  lady's  eye" — (at  this  compli- 
ment the  Conde  again  bows  low,  and  kisses 
the  queen's  hand) — "to  an  alliance  which  will 
bind  together  the  powers  of  Leon,  Navarre,  and 
Castile?" 

In  the  king's  face,  turned  somewhat  aside,  first 
came  a  look  of  blank  astonishment,  succeeded  by  a 
smile  so  malignant  that  had  Castila  seen  it  he 
would  certainly  not  have  consented. 

"By  my  faith,"  are  the  king's  words,  suddenly 
assuming  an  aspect  of  the  most  intense  interest, 
"a  very  excellent  proposal.  Refuse  it  not,  my 
lord.  Men  say  in  Leon  that  I  rule,  but  that  Queen 
Dona  Teresa  holds  the  reins  of  state.  Who 
better?  Follow  my  example.  Her  judgment  is 
excellent." 

But  the  Conde  saw  not  the  matter  in  that  simple 
light.  With  much  misgiving  he  had  come  to  Leon. 
Hostile  to  him,  he  knew,  was  the  queen,  and  Don 
Sancho  was  ruled  by  her. 

"You  hesitate,"  exclaims  Dona  Teresa,  her 
visage  forming  into  a  dark  frown;  "better  not  to 
give  good  counsel  than  to  have  it  cast  in  one's 
teeth." 

"Nay,  Dona  the  Queen,  I  did  but  consider  your 
words.  The  matter  is  too  important  to  be  ac- 
cepted offhand. " 


242  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


"You  bestow  your  own  hand,  I  suppose,  your- 
self?" she  asks  with  a  sneer. 

Again  the  Conde  bowed. 

"Where  else  could  you  give  it  better?  You  are 
not  already  married,  I  presume,  from  a  weariness 
in  your  mind  at  having  so  many  who  would  claim 
the  title." 

"It  would  not  become  me  to  say  so,"  put  m 
Fernan,  a  genuine  blush  rising  on  his  cheek. 

"This  alliance  would  certainly  knit  the  Christ- 
ians together,  "  urges  the  king,  now  speaking  with  a 
certain  vehemence,  "at  a  moment  of  great  danger 
to  us  all.  Almanzor  is  a  leader  of  renown,  backed 
by  great  riches." 

"Why  not  see  the  Infanta  for  yourself?"  asks 
the  queen.  "Start  from  here  on  this  joyous 
pilgrimage  of  love."  Again  that  strange  look 
came  into  her  eyes,  as  she  fixed  them  on  Fernan, 
and  again  the  fat  king  showed  his  contentment 
by  a  hidden  glance. 

"To  see  the  lady  would  indeed  be  my  desire," 
the  Conde  answers,  all  the  same  somewhat  stag- 
gered by  this  insistence  for  his  advantage  in  those 
he  had  good  cause  to  know  bore  him  him  no  good- 
will. He  had  hitherto  little  considered  the  subject 
of  marriage.  Still  it  was  true;  the  alliance  was 
for  the  good  of  all. 

"The  idea  pleases  me,"  he  says  at  last — (per- 
haps these  enemies  had  come  to  a  better  mind). 
"Thank  you,  Dona  the  Queen,  and  my  good  kins- 
man, Don  Sancho.     This  occasion  also  assures  me 


EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA  243 

of  your  friendship,  which  I  have  sometimes  had  in 
doubt."  Here  deprecatory  looks  passed  between 
the  king  and  his  mother,  as  under  protest  at  such 
an  assertion.  "Indeed,  at  Leon,  I  am  half-way  on 
the  road.     I  will  go. " 

Gaily  Fernan  set  forth  on  his  journey  over  the 
mountains  to  the  Court  of  Navarre.  Not  followed, 
as  he  came  to  Leon,  with  a  warlike  train,  but 
with  gorgeously  arrayed  chamberlains,  esquires, 
and  pages,  covered  with  silk  and  embroidery,  and 
showy  heralds  with  nodding  plumes  flying  the 
pennon  of  Castile,  all  mounted  on  horses  with  fine 
and  slender  limbs,  accoutred  with  saddle-cloths, 
and  trappings  as  richly  decorated  as  their  riders. 

He  himself,  as  Dona  Teresa  truly  said,  "was 
formed  by  Nature  to  please  a  lady's  eye, "  graceful, 
athletic,  with  light-brown  hair  curling  on  his  neck 
and  a  short  beard  worn  in  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
partly  concealing  his  regular  features,  expressive 
of  a  singular  sweetness;  with  a  voice,  too,  although 
well  tuned  to  the  tone  of  command,  capable  of 
modulating  into  the  gentlest  tones  of  love. 

Thus  he  rode  over  the  plains  of  Northern  Spain 
and  through  the  gorges  of  the  mountains,  up  the 
rocky  defiles  where  Roland's  blood  was  shed,  to  the 
ancient  Roman  city  of  Narbonne,  standing  on  a 
rock  over  the  sea,  time-worn  and  rugged  in  aspect, 
as  having  borne  many  a  siege,  for  the  small  king- 
dom of  Navarre  was  ever  industrious  in  war. 

Don  Garcia,  the  king,  feigned  great  joy  at  the 


244  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Conde's  arrival.  His  royal  kinsfolk  at  Leon  had 
put  him  on  the  track,  but  the  redoubtable  courage 
of  the  Conde  called  for  great  caution. 

And  the  Infanta,  Doha  Ava?  From  the  first 
moment  his  heart  was  won. 

Entering  from  her  bower  chamber  into  the  old 
hall  of  the  castle  of  Navarre,  where  reigned  an 
atmosphere  of  troubadours  and  song,  he  saw  her 
taking  her  place  at  a  banquet  held  in  his  honour. 

A  very  Queen  of  Hearts  she  seemed  to  him, 
blandly  sweet,  with  tender  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
under  the  curve  of  faultless  eyebrows,  a  little 
dimple  in  her  cheek,  the  very  home  of  love,  and 
smiling  lips,  curved  like  Cupid's  bow. 

"By  my  faith!"  muttered  Fernan  to  himself, 
as  he  doffed  his  jewelled  cap,  and  advanced  to  kiss 
her  hand;  "but  she  is  fair  enough  to  move  St. 
Anthony  himself.  Methinks  I  have  been  most 
unjust  in  doubting  the  good  faith  of  Doha  Teresa 
in  proposing  to  me  so  sweet  a  bride. " 

And  the  Infanta  loved  him ;  and  her  treacherous 
father,  Garcia  Sanchez,  tempted  by  the  prize  to  be 
attained,  of  half  of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  by  all 
means  encouraged  their  frequent  meetings  in 
bower  and  hall,  in  hawking,  falcon  on  wrist,  when 
they  rode  together  in  the  woods,  or  when  the 
troubadours  tuned  their  lyres  to  sing  cancioneros 
when  the  sea-winds  were  still. 

How  can  words  tell  of  the  raptures  of  the  Conde? 
His  greatest  enemies  had  procured  his  greatest 
joy!     He  had  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand  to  clasp 


EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA  245 

a  jewel  without  price.     Tender  delusions  of  youth ! 
alas!  why  should  fate  shatter  them? 

One  moonlight  night  they  had  wandered  to- 
gether on  the  battlements  of  the  castle  into  a 
pleasaunce  of  ancient  elms,  interlacing  in  thick 
arches  overhead;  the  duena,  who  never  left  them, 
disposing  of  herself  apart  at  a  discreet  distance. 

Below  the  sea  lay  calm  and  still,  wrapped  in 
deep  shadow,  save  where  wave  followed  wave, 
gently  catching  the  moonbeams  for  an  instant, 
then  falling  back  into  an  endless  rotation. 

"Oh,  love,  how  fair  is  the  night,"  says  the 
Infanta,  with  a  happy  sigh,  casting  her  eyes 
round  on  earth  and  heaven.  "Methinks  I  have 
nothing  more  to  wish. " 

But  Fernan  answers  not.  His  gaze  is  fixed 
on  her;  the  pale  tresses  of  her  golden  hair  shining 
through  the  meshes  of  a  jewelled  veil,  her  eyes 
melting  with  fondness,  the  soft  outline  of  her  face 
and  that  adorable  dimple — from  the  first  sight  of 
which  he  dates  his  present  transports — intoxicate 
his  sense,  and  forgetting  that  she  is  an  Infanta, 
daughter  of  a  king,  in  a  moment  of  passion  he 
clasps  her  in  his  arms. 

"See,  sweetheart,"  says  he,  still  holding  her  in 
his  embrace,  "how  the  moonlight  flickers  on 
yonder  trees." 

"  Yes, "  is  her  answer.  "Yet,  did  I  not  know  we 
were  safe,  I  could  almost  believe  some  one  was  watch- 
ing behind  the  trees.     Let  us  go  back  to  the  castle. ' ' 


246  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"I  can  see  nothing  but  you,"  he  answers,  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "You  are  the  very  goddess  of 
the  night!" 

"But  it  is  late,"  she  urges,  rising  to  her  feet; 
"if  I  stay  longer  I  shall  have  bad  dreams.     Let  us 

go." 

"Oh,  Ava,  my  Infanta!"  he  murmurs  pressing 
her  in  his  arms,  "  I  could  stay  here  for  ever!  Tell 
me  again  you  love  me!  Repeat  it  a  thousand 
times!" 

The  language  of  love  is  the  same  in  all  ages. 
This  was  said  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago,  and 
has  been  repeated  since,  millions  of  times,  but 
what  matter?  When  soul  speaks  to  soul,  however 
fervently,  language  has  limits,  therefore  there  is  a 
certain  sameness  in  the  expression. 

While  the  hot  words  of  love  are  on  his  lips,  the 
branches  of  the  trees  are  parted  by  unseen  hands, 
a  group  of  dark,  muffled  figures  rush  out,  daggers 
glitter  in  the  moonlight,  and  before  he  can  draw 
his  sword  he  is  mastered.  Cords  bind  him  hand 
and  foot,  a  mask  is  placed  upon  his  face,  and  he  is 
hurried  below  into  the  deep  dungeon  of  the  castle. 

The  treason  is  so  vile,  the  act  so  base,  for  awhile 
it  seems  to  him  like  the  glamour  of  a  dream,  but 
the  weight  of  the  heavy  fetters  pressing  into  his 
flesh,  the  dark  and  narrow  cell  where  light  barely 
penetrates,  the  damp  cold  that  chills  his  blood,  the 
shame,  the  loneliness,  the  silence — these  are  no 
dreams ! 

"Ah,  Ava!  Ava!  you  never  loved  me!"  he  cries 


EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA  247 

in  his  anguish.  "Your  baneful  charms  served 
but  as  a  bait.  Now  God  forgive  you,  lady! 
my  heart  will  break,  and  by  your  act!  The 
Moors  will  rejoice,  as  they  pour  over  the  land, 
that  my  hand  is  shortened  and  I  cannot  strike! 
Alas !  falseness  is  in  your  blood !  Who  could  guess 
that  those  heavenly  eyes  were  but  as  nets  to  lure 
me?  Ah,  King  Don  Garcia,  is  this  the  honour  of  a 
Christian  knight?  Fool,  madman  that  I  was,  I 
knew  they  were  traitors,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  wo- 
man I  am  trapped,  like  a  page  seeking  butterflies!" 

Thus  did  the  unhappy  Conde  complain,  return- 
ing ever  to  the  name  of  the  Infanta.  Her  treachery 
was  the  deepest  wound  of  all. 

Now  it  is  that  the  romanceros  take  up  the  tale 
of  his  captivity,  and  thus  they  sing : 

"They  have  carried  him  into  Navarre,  the 
great  Conde  de  Castila,  and  they  have  bound  him 
sorely,  hand  and  heel! 

"The  tidings  up  to  the  mountains  go,  and  down 
among  the  valleys! 

"To  the  rescue !  to  the  rescue,  ho ! " 

And  the  Infanta?  Need  I  say  that  charming 
princess  did  not  deserve  his  accusations?  But  she 
was  forced  to  dissemble,  lest  his  life  should  be  taken 
by  her  father,  as  cruel  and  remorseless  a  parent  as 
ever  figured  in  fairy  tale  or  song.  Such  monsters 
were  frequently  met  with  in  the  olden  time,  and  the 
nature  of  their  characters  and  motives  are  hard 
to  read  by  the  light  of  modern  times.  It  is  possi- 
ble indeed  such  may  still  exist,  but  now  they  snare 


248  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

their  daughters'  lovers  by  other  means  than 
poison  and  iron  chains,  though,  perchance,  they 
leave  them  as  husbands  as  disconsolate  as 
before. 


CHAPTER  XXIH 
Dona  -A.va 

|T  a  great  festival  given  by  Don 
Garcia,  Dona  Ava  sat  at  the 
board.  The  jewels  that  decked 
her  coif  and  neck  but  increased 
the  paleness  of  her  eyes.  No  love-dimple  dented 
her  fair  cheek;  it  had  vanished  with  the  pres- 
ence of  Fernan,  and  the  white  lips  he  had  so 
boldly  kissed  gave  utterance  to  secret  sighs.  She 
spoke  no  word  as  she  sat  in  the  light  of  the 
torches  fixed  on  the  walls,  nor  took  any  heed  of  the 
company  of  guests,  but  leaned  back,  lost  in  dis- 
mal remembrance  of  the  night  when  her  lover,  with 
soft  brown  hair,  who  had  ridden  across  the  moun- 
tains to  ask  her  hand,  was  beside  her. 

On  the  raised  dais  was  a  pilgrim  knight  with  a 
red  cross  on  his  breast,  arrived  from  Normandy, 
and  riding  through  Navarre  to  cross  swords  with 
the  Moors  at  Saragoza.  But  who  he  was,  or  on 
what  special  errand  he  had  come,  he  did  not  reveal 
even  to  the  king. 

The  Infanta  took  little  heed  of  him,  but  as  the 
feast  proceeded  and  the  gold  loving-cup  passed 
round  from  hand  to  hand,  and  each  guest  quaffed 

249 


25o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  red  wine  in  honour  of  the  king,  she  looked  up 
and  saw  his  eyes  earnestly  fixed  on  her. " 

Then  a  whisper  came  to  her  ear,  so  low  that  the 
voice  did  not  ruffle  a  hair  of  the  delicate  locks 
which  so  beautified  her  face  and  neck. 

"Fernan  still  loves  you,"  said  the  voice,  "spite 
of  the  little  kindness  you  have  shown  him.  I  have 
visited  him  in  prison;  I  bribed  the  Alcaide  with 
many  golden  bezants;  you  might  do  the  same. 
Bethink  you  of  the  curse  which  will  cleave  to  your 
name— worse  than  Don  Julian's  daughter,  La 
Cava — if  his  life  be  lost.  For  your  sake  he 
came  into  Navarre.  It  is  for  you  to  set  him 
free!" 

As  the  pilgrim  spoke  Ava's  cheeks  grew  red  and 
white  by  turns.  She  trembled,  hesitated,  while 
silent  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  and  fell  one  by  one  on 
her  rich  robe.  At  length,  with  faltering  voice  she 
whispered  back  again,  watching  the  moment  when 
the  king  had  turned  aside  in  earnest  speech  with 
some  nobles  from  Leon,  quaffing  to  their  health 
in  a  cup  of  Cyprus  wine  taken  in  the  last  foray 
with  Almanzor  in  the  North : 

"I  promise  you  I  will.  Tell  me  who  you  are 
and  whence  you  come.  Happy  is  the  prince  who 
possesses  such  a  friend." 

Then  the  stranger  explained  that  he  was  no 
pilgrim  from  Normandy,  but  a  trusty  Castilian 
knight  come  from  Burgos  to  find  his  lord,  and 
that  so  well  had  he  acted  his  part  that  he  had 
deceived  the  whole  court  and  discovered  him. 


DONA  AVA  251 


The  dungeon  into  which  the  Conde  de  Castila 
had  been  borne  by  the  slaves  of  Don  Garcia  (for 
so  much  did  Moslem  habits  prevail  at  that  time, 
it  was  common  for  Christians  also  to  have  Nubian 
and  Ethiopian  slaves)  lay  at  the  foot  of  many 
steep  flights  of  stairs  in  the  very  foundations  of  the 
castle.  Overhead  the  sea  boomed  against  the 
walls  in  ceaseless  waves,  bellowing  with  thundering 
uproar. 

He  had  at  first  been  callous  to  his  fate.  In  the 
immediate  expectation  of  a  violent  death,  life  and 
its  interests  had  faded  from  his  thoughts.  The 
image  of  the  Infanta  was  ever  with  him,  but  as 
a  bright  phantom  from  another  world  with  whom 
he  could  have  no  concern,  rather  than  as  the  reality 
of  a  mortal  love. 

Was  she  true  or  false?  That  lay  in  the  mystery 
of  the  past.  As  a  dying  man  he  had  no  past.  He 
forgave  her,  even  if  she  were  false.  Whither  he 
went  she  could  not  follow.  He  must  die,  and  leave 
revenge  to  his  people.  Soon  they  will  know  the 
treachery  of  the  king.  His  faithful  subject,  the 
seeming  pilgrim,  will  ride  straight  to  Burgos,  call 
together  the  Cortes,  and  declare  war.  But  little 
will  that  help  him  when  he  is  dead !     Alas !  all  fails ! 

Day  after  day  he  waited  for  some  sign  from  the 
friend  who  had  risked  his  life  to  find  him.  None 
came.     He  was  forgotten,  and  he  longed  to  die ! 

In  the  dead  of  night  he  had  thrown  himself  on 
a  rough  couch  of  ox-hide,  and,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands,  groaned  heavily.     At  length  a  feverish 


252  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

sleep  had  come  to  his  relief,  when,  starting  up,  it 
seemed  that  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  sound  of 
footsteps. 

"Now,  by  the  wounds  of  Christ,  my  hour  is 
come,"  he  told  himself.  "King  Garcia  will 
take  from  me  that  life  he  dare  not  attempt  by 
combat  in  the  field, "  and  he  rose  up  to  meet  death 
as  became  a  man. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer  and  now 
there  is  the  dim  glimmer  of  a  light. 

"They  come,  they  come;  but  how  cautiously. 
Is  it  that  the  assassins  would  strike  me  while  I 
sleep?" 

Plainer  and  plainer  were  the  steps,  and  brighter 
and  brighter  shone  the  light  which  fell  across  the 
floor.  Now  they  are  at  hand,  close  at  the  door. 
Deftly  and  noiselessly  the  heavy  chains  are  loosed. 
The  door  opens.  A  figure,  dim  in  the  shadow, 
stands  before  him.  He  strains  his  eyes  in  the 
darkness.  Great  God!  Can  it  be  true?  It  is  the 
Infanta!     She  is  alone. 

"Ava,  my  princess!"  cries  Fernan,  and  such  a 
transport  of  rapture  possesses  him  the  words  will 
scarcely  come,  "you  are  not  false,"  and  he  clasps 
her  to  his  heart. 

Then  she  explains  to  him  how,  following  the 
counsel  of  the  pilgrim  knight  whom  he  had  sent  to 
her,  she  bribed  the  Alcaide  with  all  the  jewels 
she  possessed. 

"And  could  you,  Don  Conde, "  says  she,  gazing 
up  into  his  face  from  under  the  folds  of  the  heavy 


DONA  AVA  253 


mantilla  which  concealed  her  features,  "could  you 
doubt  my  honour  and  my  faith?  Out  on  the  base 
thought!  Shame  on  your  weak  love!  I  waited 
but  the  occasion,  and  it  came. " 

"Oh!  let  me  hear  your  voice,"  sighs  the  love- 
sick Conde,  "though  it  rain  curses  on  me!  For- 
give my  unworthy  doubt,  or  that  in  aught  I 
misjudged  you.  I  am  sure  you  pleaded  for  me. 
Have  you  softened  the  king's  heart?" 

"No,  not  a  whit,"  answers  Ava,  with  a  sigh. 
"His  enmity  but  grows  more  dangerous  as  the 
time  wears  on  for  him  to  depart  to  Burgos  to  meet 
King  Don  Sancho  and  his  mother. " 

"To  Burgos,  my  capital?" 

"Yes,  they  will  divide  your  kingdom,  and  then 
march  against  Almanzor.  Fernan,  you  have  no 
friend  but  me!" 

"  Now  may  the  foul  fiend  seize  them  on  the  way ! " 
cries  the  Conde.  "Oh!  that  I  had  a  sword  to 
fight!  Castile  and  Burgos  in  their  hands!  The 
dastards!     And  I  am  bound  here  like  a  slave!" 

"  But  I  am  come  to  free  you ! "  replies  the  Infanta, 
with  such  courage  in  her  voice  that  already  the 
fresh  air  of  freedom  seems  to  fan  his  cheek,  as  with 
deft  hands  she  loosens  his  fetters.  "The  door  is 
open,  before  you  lies  the  way. " 

"And  you,  dear  Ava, "  clasping  her  willing  hand 
"  are  we  to  part  thus?  " 

At  this  question  she  hung  her  head,  and  a  great 
blush  mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

"Ah,  my  lord,"   she  whispered,  and  the  little 


254  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

dimple  came  back  again,  forming  near  her  lip, 
"  I  fain  would  fly  with  you.  For  this  I  came,  never 
to  part  again. " 

"Then,"  says  the  ballad,  "he  solemnly  saluted 
the  Infanta  as  his  bride  on  brow  and  lip,  and  hand 
in  hand  they  went  forth  together  into  the  night. " 

Had  there  been  court  painters  in  those  days, 
they  might  fitly  have  depicted  the  Conde,  flushed 
with  hope,  the  Infanta  at  his  side,  feminine  and 
sweet,  as  one  of  those  blonde  images  adored  on 
altars  pale  amid  the  perfume  of  incense,  caracol- 
ing through  the  greenwood  on  their  way  to  Burgos. 

The  geography  of  the  Conde 's  progress  is  rather 
loose,  but  we  will  figure  to  ourselves  a  forest  glade 
of  wide-branching  oaks,  which  had  perhaps  shel- 
tered the  advance  of  the  Roman  legions  from 
Gaul.  Athwart  rambles  a  rocky  stream,  a  gentle 
eminence  lies  in  front,  crowned  by  a  group  of 
olives. 

As  they  address  themselves  to  the  ascent,  the 
figure  of  a  priest  appears,  mounted  on  a  mule, 
equipped  in  a  strange  fashion,  a  mixture  of  cas- 
sock and  huntsman,  a  bugle  round  his  neck  and  a 
hawk  upon  his  wrist. 

"  Now  stop  you.  Stop  you, "  he  shouts,  placing 
himself  full  across  the  way;  "Castila  knows  you 
both,  fair  Infanta,  and  you,  Lord  of  Castila.  I 
have  seen  you  at  the  castle.  What  unlawful 
game  are  you  after?  Dismount,  Sir  Conde,  and 
give  account  to  me,  the  purveyor  of  these  forests 


DONA  AVA  255 


for  the  king."  And  the  bold  priest  presses  his 
mule  close  up  to  them. 

"By  the  rood!  Conde  or  no  Conde,  I  will  dis- 
mount to  please  no  man,"  answers  he.  "Nor 
shall  the  Infanta,  as  you  say  you  know  her.  Re- 
move yourself,  I  pray,  Sir  Priest,  from  our  way,  or 
your  tonsure  shall  not  save  you  from  a  whipping." 

"That  is  at  my  pleasure,"  is  the  reply.  "But 
as  the  Infanta  seems  to  have  yielded  willingly  to 
your  blandishments,  Conde  de  Castila,  I  stay  you 
not  if  you  pay  me  a  fitting  ransom. " 

"A  ransom!"  quoth  he,  "that  is  a  most  singular 
demand  from  a  consecrated  priest,  who  ought  to  be 
saying  his  prayers,  instead  of  hawking  in  the  green- 
wood.    No  ransom  will  I  pay. " 

"Then  I  will  teach  you  a  lesson,"  and  the 
vagrant  churchman  raises  his  bugle  to  his  lips. 
"A  note  from  my  little  instrument  and  you  will 
soon  lie  again  in  chains." 

"  Do  your  worst,  craven, "  shouts  the  Conde  in  a 
rage,  spite  of  the  whispers  of  the  Infanta,  seated 
behind  him  on  a  pad  of  the  broad  saddle,  her  arms 
clasped  round  his  waist ;  "it  shall  never  be  said  that 
Fernan  Gonzales  yielded  to  a  pilfering  clerk. " 

No  sooner  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  than, 
reddening  with  rage,  the  priest  blew  a  long  loud 
blast,  among  the  ancient  oaks.  At  this  the  In- 
fanta could  no  longer  keep  silence. 

"Help,  help!"  she  shouted,  "for  the  Conde  de 
Castila, "  and  Gonzales,  though  embarrassed  with 
her  weight,  rode  fiercely  forward  raising  his  hand 


256  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


to  strike,  for  he  had  no  sword.  But  the  treacher- 
ous priest,  setting  spurs  to  his  mule,  galloped  down 
the  glade  at  headlong  speed,  sounding  his  horn. 
The  noise  he  made  was  heard  by  others — the 
rattle  of  horses'  hoofs  came  rapidly  in  the  wind, 
and  a  company  of  horsemen  advanced  with  threat- 
ening aspect. 

"Ah,  now  is  our  time  come!"  cries  the  Infanta, 
"the  vile  priest  has  done  for  us.  We  cannot  fly. 
Alack !  alack !  the  evil  day ! " 

"Nay,  comfort  thee,  sweet  one,"  answers 
Fernan,  "I  will  face  them,  though  I  die."  At 
which  the  tears  stream  down  Dona  Ava's  face, 
and  she  clasps  her  arm  tighter  around  him. 

"Now,  by  the  heaven  above  us,"  exclaims  the 
Conde,  "what  miracle  is  this?  It  is  my  own  dear 
standard — the  banner  of  Castile!  There  is  'the 
castle'  as  large  as  life  on  its  gold  ground.  Long 
may  it  flourish,  the  blessed  sign.  Draw  near,  draw 
near,  my  merry  men !  Behold,  my  sweet  Infanta, " 
— stealing  a  hidden  kiss — "these  are  my  own  true 
subjects!  Castile,  Castile  to  the  rescue!  Look, 
how  bright  are  their  lances!  How  the  sun  shines 
on  the  blades!  Every  sword  is  for  my  Ava; 
every  sword  gleams  for  her!  Ah!  there  is  my 
trusty  knight,  brave  Nufio  Ansares,  who  visited 
me  in  prison,"  addressing  the  leader  of  the  troop. 
"Never  did  vassal  better  serve  his  lord!  The 
horn  of  that  robber-priest,  instead  of  harming 
us,  has  saved  our  lives.  Now  to  Burgos  ride, 
ride  for  our  lives!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Marriage  of  D    fia  Ava  and  El  Conde 

de  Castila — Treachery  of  Dona 

Teresa 

lURGOS  was  reached  without  further 
incident,  and  in  a  few  days  the 
marriage  of  the  Conde  and  the 
Infanta  was  solemnised  with  great 
pomp  in  the  church  of  Sant'  Agueda  on  the 
hill,  under  a  mantle  of  delicate  sculpture  which 
lined  the  walls. x 

Now  here  it  should  be  said,  as  in  the  fairy  tales, 
"They  married  and  lived  happily  ever  after." 
Not  at  all.  We  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  their 
troubles. 

The  rage  of  Don  Sancho  of  Leon  and  King 
Garcia  of  Navarre,  the  father  of  Dona  Ava,  knew 
no  bounds.  Genuine  rage,  for  they  had  both 
been  caught  in  their  own  trap,  a  thing  utterly 
unbearable  to  malignant  natures,  be  they  kings  or 
commons. 

As  to  the  King  of  Navarre,  who  not  only  had 
lost  a  highly  valuable  marriageable  daughter,  but 

1  The  beautiful  cathedral  at  Burgos  was  built  later  by  Fernando 
El  Santo,  King  of  Castile. 

VOL.   I — 17  257 


258  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  half  of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  he  at  once 
assembled  a  strong  army,  under  the  pretence  that 
the  Conde  had  feloniously  carried  off  the  Infanta — 
a  curious  accusation,  considering  that  he  himself 
had  consented  to  their  nuptials. 

"Let  us  wait  till  he  comes  to  a  better  mind," 
urged  Dona  Ava,  from  her  palace  at  Burgos,  look- 
ing out  over  those  rich  plains  which  are  the  glory 
of  Central  Spain;  "after  all,  I  am  his  daughter,  he 
cannot  harm  we." 

But  this  Christian  point  of  view  was  not  shared 
by  the  King  of  Navarre,  who  from  his  mountains 
executed  such  raids  on  Castile  that  Gonzales  had 
no  choice  but  to  face  him. 

Near  Ogrono  was  the  battle,  not  far  from  Bur- 
gos, by  the  river  Ebro,  and  hardly  was  it  fought, 
and  victory  only  gained  by  a  clever  feint,  headed 
by  the  Conde  in  person.  Don  Garcia's  camp  was 
seized  and  he  himself  taken  prisoner. 

Now  face  to  face  they  stood  within  a  tent,  the 
father-in-law  and  son.  The  casque  of  the  king 
battered,  his  armour  bleared,  his  chief  knights  in 
a  like  plight,  prisoners  beside  him — the  Conde  in 
front  brandishing  a  blood-stained  sword,  with 
such  a  sense  of  wrong  gnawing  at  his  heart  as  for 
a  time  leaves  him  speechless. 

Then  the  words  of  reproach  came  rushing  to  his 
lips.  "False  king,  did  I  not  come  in  peace  to 
Narbonne,  and  you  gave  me  the  royal  kiss  of  wel- 
come? Did  I  not  eat  at  your  board?  Sleep  the 
sleep  of  peace  under  your  roof?     Ride  with  you? 


MARRIAGE  OF  CONDE  AND  INFANTA    259 

Jest  with  you?  Live  as  man  to  man  of  the 
kinship  we  are  to  each  other?  Did  you  not" 
(and  here  his  upraised  voice  breaks  into  a  softer 
tone  as  he  names  her)  "give  me  your  daughter, 
the  Infanta,  as  my  wife,  and,  while  her  hand  was 
clasped  in  mine,  her  kiss  upon  my  cheek,  did  you 
not  bind  me,  vile  king,  in  chains,  and  hurl  me  into 
a  dungeon,  where  but  for  her  help,  the  angel  of  my 
life,  I  should  have  died  unheeded?  " 

To  all  this  Don  Garcia,  with  eyes  cast  on  the 
ground,  answed  not  a  word,  his  armed  figure  de- 
fined against  the  pattern  of  rich  brocade  which 
lined  the  tent  under  the  light  of  torches. 

"Now  to  Burgos  with  you,  King  of  Navarre, 
and  as  you  did  by  me,  so  be  it  done  to  you !  That 
is  bare  justice!" 

"Ah!  good  my  lord,"  came  the  soft  voice  of 
Dona  Ava  into  his  ear,  as  she  went  out  to 
meet  him  with  her  ladies  to  the  gate  of  Santa 
Maria,  beside  the  river  which  flows  by  the 
walls  of  Burgos  "remember,  Don  Garcia  is  my 
father." 

"Now  pry  thee  hold  your  peace,  fair  wife,"  was 
his  reply,  "much  as  I  love  you  he  shall  this  time 
meet  his  due.  Nor  shall  he  return  to  Navarre 
until  he  pays  me  a  full  ransom. " 

But  like  the  gentle  dropping  of  water  (and 
drops,  we  know,  wear  even  stones,  much  more  the 
soft  substance  of  which  hearts  are  made)  came  the 
entreaties  of  the  Infanta.  After  all  they  were 
married,  and  Don  Garcia  had  suffered  a  grievous 


26o  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


defeat,  which  had  weakened  him  for  mischief  for 
many  a  day ! 

So  at  the  end  of  a  year  the  prison  was  unbarred 
and  a  great  festival  held  in  the  old  palace  of  Bur- 
gos, of  which  no  trace  remains ;  a  throne  glittering 
with  cloth  of  gold  was  raised  in  the  midst  of  carpets 
and  screens  and  awnings  of  brocaded  silk,  a  luxury 
borrowed  from  the  Moors — from  whom,  much  as 
they  fought  them,  all  refined  tastes  were  acquired ; 
and  afterwards,  at  the  board  in  royal  robes,  Don 
Garcia  is  seated  side  by  side  with  Castile  (Dona 
Ava,  crowned  with  a  royal  diadem,  between),  as 
they  quaff  the  generous  wine  of  Valdepenas  in 
healths  of  eternal  amity  and  alliance. 

Again  the  Cortes  were  assembled  in  haste,  in  the 
northern  city  of  Leon,  to  determine  conclusions 
against  the  Moors. 

The  Caliph  Almanzor,  coming  from  Cordoba, 
had  penetrated  north  as  far  as  Santiago  de  Com- 
postela,  in  Galicia,  sacked  the  shrine,  the  very 
Mecca  of  Spain,  where  countless  miracles  were 
wrought  by  his  bones;  and,  insult  of  insults,  pulled 
down  the  bells  and  hung  them  (oh,  horrors !)  in  the 
Mesquita  of  Cordoba,  where  they  still  remain !  So 
that  Fernan  gladly  hastened  to  obey  Don  Sancho's 
summons,  along  with  the  kings  of  Aragon  and 
Navarre.  Years  had  passed,  a  son  had  been  born 
to  him,  and  many  acts  of  courtesy  exchanged,  as 
between  royal  kinsfolk. 

To  recall  the  past  was  by  no  means  in  harmony 


THE    FUERTA    DI    SANTA   MARIA,    BURGOS. 


TREACHERY  OF  DONA  TERESA       261 

with  his  forgiving  temper.  "Perhaps  he  will  pay 
the  debt  he  owes  me,"  was  his  thought,  "for  my 
horse  Sila  and  the  hawk  he  bought  of  me  so 
long  ago;  the  sum  must  by  this  time  be  a  big 
one." 

It  was  night  when  the  council  ended,  and  the 
royal  company  assembled  in  the  hall,  having  ex- 
changed their  heavier  garments  for  fanciful 
doublets  and  mantles  of  tissues  woven  in  Eastern 
looms,  set  off  with  fur  and  gems — graceful  toques 
to  correspond,  replacing  helmet  and  head-piece,  a 
feather  lying  low  on  the  shoulder,  or  peaked  caps 
encircled  with  garlands  of  jewels,  the  badge  of  his 
house  embroidered  on  each  knight's  breast.  As 
each  guest  took  his  place  with  that  solemn  de- 
meanour common  to  Spaniards,  a  flourish  of 
trumpets  sounded,  a  side  door  opened,  and  Dona 
Teresa  appeared,  upright  to  stiffness,  wearing  her 
crown  upon  her  head,  her  son  Don  Sancho  ad- 
vancing with  respectful  courtesy  to  place  her  on 
his  right  hand. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Don  Fernan  Gonzales,  the 
youngest  of  the  princes.  Happiness  and  loyalty 
looked  out  of  his  comely  face,  grace  was  in  every 
movement,  as  he  exchanged  compliments  with  his 
royal  kinsmen — Aragon,  a  broad-shouldered  man, 
frank  and  true  in  nature;  Navarre,  dark  and  pre- 
ponderant, his  eyes  bent  significantly  on  his  son- 
in-law;  and  his  nephew  of  Leon,  Don  Sancho  the 
Fat,  grown  so  obese  he  moved  in  his  royal  robes 
with  difficulty. 


262  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

The  feast,  spread  on  oaken  tables  covered  with 
scarlet  cloths,  blazed  with  the  sheen  of  precious 
candelabra,  cups  inlaid  with  rubies,  and  silver 
figures  trimmed  with  posies  of  flowers,  aromatic 
herbs  and  green  boughs  from  the  wood,  the  walls 
hung  with  damascened  draperies  and  a  fair  Moor- 
ish carpet  on  the  floor.  The  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl 
served  in  heavy  silver  platters  were  offered  entire  to 
each  guest,  who  with  his  dagger  cut  his  own  por- 
tion, drinking  from  silver  goblets  placed  at  his 
side. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  banquet,  to  the  blare  of 
trumpets,  King  Don  Sancho  rose  to  lead  his 
mother  to  her  retiring  room,  with  the  same  state 
as  she  had  entered. 

Already  the  kings  of  Navarre  and  Aragonhad 
passed  on,  and  the  Conde  de  Castile  was  preparing 
to  follow  when  an  armed  hand  was  placed  on  his 
shoulder  and  a  voice  uttered  in  his  ear:  "You  are 
my  prisoner. " 

"Your  prisoner?"  cried  he,  looking  round  to 
behold  a  circle  of  armed  men,  who  had  silently 
gathered  behind  his  chair  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  making  obeisance  to  the  queen,  "by  my  troth! 
this  is  an  idle  jest.  You  have  mistaken  your  man, 
my  masters.     Look  elsewhere. " 

"Not  at  all,"  cried  Queen  Dona  Teresa,  dis- 
engaging her  hand  from  that  of  the  king,  the  old 
malignant  smile  glittering  in  her  black  eyes.  "  Did 
you  think,  Sir  Conde,  we  were  as  green  as  you,  who 
come  unarmed  a  second  time  among  your  foes? 


TREACHERY  OF  DONA  TERESA       263 

The  bird  that  had  flown  is  recaptured!  Ha!  ha!" 
and  she  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  "I  think  I  can  pro- 
phesy you  will  not  escape  this  time!  The  dun- 
geons of  Leon  are  better  guarded  than  those  of 
Narbonne!" 

"  Queen  Dona  Teresa, "  was  his  answer,  his  arms 
already  bound  by  fetters,  "/  take  no  shame  for 
my  lack  of  suspicion.  Rather  is  it  for  you,  so 
royally  born,  to  blush  at  such  baseness.  You, " 
and,  spite  of  himself,  his  eyes  flamed  with  rage  as 
he  realised  that  he  had  again  fallen  into  the  power 
of  his  remorseless  kinsfolk,  "you  are  a  disgrace  to 
the  royal  lineage  you  represent.  See,  even  the 
king,  your  son,  casts  down  his  eyes.  Don  Sancho 
is  ashamed  of  his  mother!" 

Stung  by  his  reproaches  the  queen  raised  her 
hand  as  a  signal  to  the  guards  to  bear  him 
away. 

"What  manner  of  man  is  this?"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  king,  who,  though  he  had  joined  in  the 
conspiracy,  now  stood  irresolute  and  pale,  a  silent 
witness  to  his  mother's  treachery.  "He  dares 
to  jeer  at  me  with  the  chains  about  his  neck.  But 
a  long  life  passed  in  a  Gothic  dungeon  will  bring 
down  his  pride.  Fear  not,  my  son,  what  can  he 
do?  When  the  half  of  his  kingdom  is  in  your 
hands  you  will  thank  me." 

"But  our  kinswoman  the  Infanta  will  offer  a 
large  ransom.     Can  you  refuse  her?  " 

"Refuse!"  retorted  the  queen,  her  tall  figure 
drawn  up  to  its  full  height;  "there  is  no  treasure 


264  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


in  the  world  that  shall  buy  off  the  Conde  de  Castila. 
His  death  alone  will  satisfy  me. " 

And  with  a  menacing  gesture  in  the  direction  by 
which  he  had  disappeared,  she  swept  out  of  the 
hall  as  she  had  come,  followed  by  her  retinue. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Dona  Ava  Ovit-wits  Don  Sancho  and 
Releases  Her  Husband 


IME  passed  and  a  new  element 
made  itself  felt  in  the  struggle 
between  the  Christians  and  the 
Moors.  The  powerful  tribe  of 
the  Berbers  had  fastened  like  leeches  on  the 
Gothic  lands  of  the  north,  and  Almanzor,  by 
his  constant  attacks  in  the  south,  had  paralysed 
the  kings  of  Leon  and  Navarre  into  mere  tribu- 
taries. But  selfish  and  disloyal  as  they  were, 
Dona  Teresa  and  the  kings  of  Leon  and  Navarre 
never  lost  sight  of  their  determination  to  possess 
Castile,  and  instead  of  joining  heartily  against  a 
common  enemy  they  each  summoned  every  lord 
and  vassal  they  possessed  to  appear  in  arms  to 
march  against  Burgos. 

Don  Sancho  at  least  understood  his  real  position, 
and  would  willingly  have  accepted  the  large  ran- 
som offered  by  the  Infanta  for  her  lord,  but  his 
mother  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  His  dark- 
browed  uncle  of  Navarre,  too,  was  as  violent  and 
as  short-sighted  as  she,  so  that  Don  Sancho  could 
only  offer  up  fervent  prayers  to  Santiago,   the 

265 


266  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


patron  of  Spain,  whose  shrine  at  Compostela  had, 
to  his  everlasting  shame,  been  so  ill-defended. 

Would  the  celestial  knight  again  appear  on  his 
milk-white  charger  clad  in  radiant  mail  and  en- 
sure a  victory  as  when  King  Ramiro,  his  pre- 
decessor, refused  to  pay  "the  Maiden  Tribute" 
exacted  by  the  Caliph?  Would  he  come?  And 
never  did  sovereign  put  up  more  fervent  Ora  pro 
nobis  Sancta  Maria  than  the  fat  king,  and  in- 
vocations to  all  the  calendar  of  saints. 

In  the  midst  of  his  devotions  a  scratch  is  heard  at 
the  door,  the  curtain  is  drawn  aside,  and  the  head 
of  a  jefe  appears.  At  an  impatient  motion  of  the 
king,  indicating  that  he  would  not  be  disturbed, 
the  jefe  bows  low. 

"Good,  my  lord,"  are  his  words,  "what  am  I 
to  do?  Here  is  a  pious  pilgrim  bound  for  Com- 
postela, earnestly  desiring  to  see  your  Grace. " 

"For  Compostela,"  answers  the  king.  "Ah! 
he  is  welcome,  admit  him  at  once.  He  can  tell 
me,  on  his  return,  in  what  precise  condition  the 
sanctuary  is  left.  That  last  raid  of  the  Moors  lies 
heavy  on  my  soul. " 

In  a  few  moments  the  pilgrim  stands  before  him, 
his  face  concealed  by  a  close-fitting  cap,  heavily 
charged  with  drapery,  which  he  wears  on  his  head. 

"In  what  matter,"  asks  Don  Sancho,  with  a 
gracious  smile,  "can  the  King  of  Leon  advantage 
you,  good  pilgrim?  If  it  is  within  my  power, 
command  me." 


DONA  A  VA  OUTWITS  DON  SANCHO     267 

"  My  lord, "  answers  the  pilgrim,  in  tones  which 
fell  caressingly  on  the  ear,  "I  humbly  thank  your 
Grace.  I  am  bound  for  Compostela,  to  fulfil  a 
vow  concerning  your  prisoner,  the  Conde  de 
Castila." 

"The  Conde  de  Castila!"  exclaims  the  king, 
half  starting  from  his  chair.  "He  is  clean  for- 
gotten.    As  well  talk  of  a  dead  man. " 

"  I  crave  your  pardon  if  I  have  said  aught  amiss, 
but  the  Conde  has  caused  deep  sorrow  to  me.  In 
my  wrath  I  invoked  a  curse  upon  him,  in  the  name 
of  the  blessed  saint,  and  now  I  am  bound  to  render 
thanks  for  his  death. 

"Death!"  ejaculates  Don  Sancho,  turning  pale, 
"who  talks  of  his  death?  " 

"I,"  answers  the  pilgrim,  with  a  singular  de- 
cision. "I  know  that  the  death  of  the  Conde 
is  near!" 

"By  whose  hand?"  demands  the  king,  greatly 
excited.  (Did  this  holy  person  know  of  some 
secret  conspiracy  of  Dona  Teresa  to  assassinate 
him,  and  had  he  come  to  reveal  it?) 

"By  mine,"  whispers  the  pilgrim,  mysteriously 
approaching  him.  "I  have  about  me  a  subtle 
poison,  the  venom  of  snakes,  given  me  by  a  Berber. 
It  never  fails;  silently  it  extinguishes  life.  But 
it  must  be  properly  administered.  Lead  me  to  the 
prison — I  will  answer  for  the  rest. " 

Even  Don  Sancho  is  staggered  by  the  proposal 
of  this  cold-blooded  pilgrim,  and  replies  with 
caution: 


268  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Should  this  prove  true,  I  shall  not  be  unmind- 
ful of  the  saint's  claims  on  me.  But,  holy  pilgrim, 
much  as  I  honour  your  design  and  wish  you  suc- 
cess, in  these  warlike  times  I  must  demand  some 
sign  to  assure  me  of  your  truth. " 

"Signs  shall  not  be  wanting,  0  King,"  answers 
the  pilgrim,  in  whose  voice  an  eager  sweetness 
seems  to  penetrate.  "The  Holy  Apostle  has 
himself  appeared  to  me  in  a  vision  and  unfolded 
deep  mysteries  concerning  Navarre  and  Leon. 
The  time  is  not  far  off  when  Castile  and  Leon  will 
be  united  under  one  crown,  and  that  union  will 
end  the  Mussulman  rule  in  Spain." 

"O  great  and  holy  seer!"  ejaculates  Sancho  the 
Fat,  folding  his  hands,  greatly  impressed  by  what 
appears  the  complete  fulfilment  of  his  utmost 
ambition,  "much  do  I  honour  you.  Disclose,  if 
not  bound  by  a  vow,  what  is  your  name,  that  I 
may  impart  it  to  my  mother,  Dona  Queen  Teresa. " 

To  this  request  the  pilgrim  pays  no  heed. 

"Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  if  the  death  of  the 
Conde  prefigures  these  events?" 

"By  the  aid  of  Santiago,  yes,"  is  the  answer. 
"Such  is  the  prophecy  I  have  to  impart." 

Now  had  Don  Sancho  been  less  eager  to  rid 
himself  of  Gonzales  by  every  means,  he  would 
have  noted  the  violent  agitation  which  shook  the 
pilgrim's  frame. 

To  poison  a  sovereign  in  prison — and  a  kinsman 
to  boot — is  a  serious  undertaking.  Already 
the  words  of  refusal  are  on  Sancho' s  lips  when 


DONA  AVA  OUTWITS  DON  SANCHO     269 

the  curtains  of  the  apartment  fly  open  and 
Dona  Teresa  rushes  in. 

"What  is  this  I  hear?"  cries  this  imperious 
woman,  who  has  been  listening  outside,  her  cruel 
face  darkened  by  anger.  ' '  Shame  on  your  coward- 
ice, Don  Sancho;  you  are  no  son  of  mine.  What! 
you  would  refuse  the  proposal  of  this  worthy  pil- 
grim? I  understand  and  applaud  him.  To  kill 
the  Conde  de  Castila  is  a  work  of  mercy,  for  by 
his  death  the  lives  of  thousands  will  be  spared  on 
the  battle-field. " 

In  the  presence  of  his  mother  the  fat  king  be- 
comes mute.  Against  his  better  judgment  he 
consents  to  the  death  of  the  Conde. 

Again  we  come  upon  Fernan  in  prison,  a  very 
unlikely  place  for  so  brilliant  a  cavalier,  but,  alas! 
adverse  destiny  has  again  doomed  him  to  pass 
many  months  in  this  second  dungeon — much  more 
rough  and  dismal  than  the  prison  of  Narbonne,  as 
the  old  city  of  Leon,  with  its  Gothic  traditions, 
was  more  uncouth  and  uncivilised  than  the  capital 
of  Navarre. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asks  in  great  surprise  as  a 
pilgrim  is  ushered  in.  "Nor  need  I  ask;  coming 
from  the  vile  king  you  can  only  be  a  foe. " 

"I  am  your  friend, "  answers  a  voice  that  strikes 
like  music  on  his  ear,  "your  best,  your  only  friend, 
my  lord  and  husband, "  and  as  the  disguise  falls  to 
the  ground  the  faithful  Infanta  stands  before  her 
lord. 


270  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

We  will  pass  over  their  transports. .  A  decent 
veil  must  conceal  the  mysteries  of  married  life. 
Naturally  the  first  question  he  asked  was  how  she 
came  there?  Together  they  laughed  while  she 
explained  the  murderous  purpose  of  the  wicked 
queen. 

"But  time  speeds,"  she  says,  tearing  herself 
from  his  arms.  "You  must  fly.  The  courage  of 
our  good  Castilians  is  damped  by  your  long 
absence.     Not  a  moment  must  be  lost. " 

"What!  in  broad  daylight?"  asks  he.  "Is 
it  so  easy  a  thing  to  go?"  and  he  gives  a  bitter 
laugh. 

"No,  love,  most  difficult,  but  we  must  change 
our  clothes !  I  am  you,  and  you  are  me.  In  that 
bed,"  pointing  to  a  straw  pallet,  "I  stretch  my- 
self to  die.  I  have  swallowed  the  poison,  and  you, 
my  noble  husband,  in  the  pilgrim's  dress,  speed  to 
Burgos.  Once  under  the  gateway,  you  are  safe. 
Oh!  greet  them  well,  my  dear  ones,"  and,  spite 
of  herself,  as  she  thinks  of  her  child,  silent  tears 
gather  in  her  eyes. 

"But,  Ava,"  he  exclaims,  "greatly  as  I  honour 
your  courage,  your  fortitude,  your  skill,  ask  me  not 
to  return  to  Castile  by  such  means.  My  sweet 
wife,  the  stars  in  their  courses  must  have  willed 
that  I  should  die ;  leave  me  to  my  fate. " 

"Never!"  cries  the  valiant  woman.  "Here," 
and  she  plunges  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  "is  the 
poison.  If  you  do  not  fly,  I  will  swallow  it  before 
your  eyes." 


DONA  AVA  OUTWITS  DON  SANCHO     271 

A  gesture  of  horror  is  his  reply. 

"Besides,"  she  continues,  her  face  lighting  up. 
"What  have  I  to  fear?  Danger  to  my  life  there  is 
none!  You  cannot  imagine  my  own  aunt  would 
murder  me!  Away,  away,  or  some  fatal  accident 
may  hinder!" 

Meanwhile,  what  pen  shall  paint  the  anxiety  of 
the  king?  How  minute  by  minute  he  pictured 
each  detail  of  the  agonies  of  the  expiring  Conde. 
Truly  the  possession  of  Castile  seemed  to  his 
guilty  mind  at  that  moment  too  small  a  boon  to 
compensate  for  the  throes  of  his  guilty  conscience. 
Had  such  tortures  continued,  Sancho  would  never 
have  come  down  to  posterity  with  the  surname  of 
"the  Fat,"  but  rather  have  melted  into  a  shadow 
in  the  land  of  dreams !  At  last,  unable  any  longer 
to  bear  such  suspense,  he  called  a  page,  and  com- 
manded that  the  pilgrim  should  be  brought  before 
him. 

"He  is  gone,"  replies  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
prison,  who  has  presented  himself  to  reply. 

"Gone!"  shouts  Sancho,  "without  my  leave? 
What  does  this  mean  ?     Is  the  Conde  safe  ? ' ' 

"Safe,  indeed,"  answers  the  officer;  "but  half 
an  hour  ago  I  carried  him  a  meal,  by  special  order, 
and  a  good  one. " 

"A  meal?"  quoth  the  king,  utterly  amazed. 
"Could  he  eat?" 

"Surely,"  is  the  answer,  "and  glad  he  seemed 
to  get  it." 


272  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"  Did  he  not  appear  to  suffer?  Was  he — well — 
did  nothing  ail  him?" 

"Nothing,  my  liege.  I  never  saw  a  prisoner 
more  debonnaire,  but  he  seems  grown  strangely 
short  to  my  eyes;  he  certainly  has  dwindled. " 

"You  are  a  fool!"  cries  the  irritated  king;  "I 
must  look  into  this  matter  myself.  Bring  him  to 
my  presence." 

"By  the  rood,  but  he  does  seem  strangely 
altered, "  mutters  the  king,  as  the  prisoner  stands 
before  him.  "Surely" — and  a  suspicion  shoots 
through  his  mind,  to  be  dismissed  at  once  as  ridi- 
culous, as  they  approach  each  other. 

"Well,  Sir  Conde,  are  the  prisons  of  Leon 
better  guarded  than  those  of  Narbonne?"  he 
asks,  with  a  sneer. 

"Much  better,  Sir  King,  one  can  escape  more 
easily.  For  a  sovereign  so  versed  in  plots  and  con- 
spiracies— murder  even" — (at  this  word  the  king 
gives  a  great  start) — "you  are  marvellously  at 
ease." 

King  Sancho  became  so  bewildered,  his  head 
was  going  round.  Was  he  bewitched?  Was  this 
the  Conde  or  not?     And  if  not,  who? 

Then  Dona  Ava,  speaking  in  her  own  natural 
voice,  broke  out  into  peals  of  laughter. 

"  Surely,  Don  Sancho,  a  bachelor  like  you  cannot 
be  so  ungallant  as  to  imprison  a  lady." 

"  A  lady !  A  woman !  God's  mercy !  what  does 
this  mean?     Who  has  dared  to  deceive  me?  " 

"I,"    answered    the    Infanta.     "Shower    your 


DONA  AVA  OUTWITS  DON  SANCHO     273 

wrath  on  me,  your  kinswoman.  May  I  not  be  a 
deceiver  when  so  many  of  my  blood  excel?  The 
queen,  for  instance?  Now  look  at  me,  Sancho, 
and  let  this  folly  end. " 

And  the  king  did  look,  and  into  a  most  towering 
passion  he  fell,  using  more  bad  language  than  I 
care  to  repeat. 

"A  curse  upon  you!"  are  his  first  intelligible 
words.     "Where  is  that  villain,  your  husband?  " 

"In  Castile,"  she  answers,  "or  far  on  the  way. 
Never  fear,  he  will  soon  return  to  settle  accounts 
with  you," 

"False  woman,"  and  the  king,  fuming  with  a 
sense  of  intolerable  wrong  at  having  been  made 
such  a  fool  of,  lifts  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  her, 
' '  learn  to  fear  my  vengeance ! " 

"Not  I,"  is  her  answer,  laughing  again.  "You 
dare  do  nothing  to  me,  and  my  loved  lord  is  free, 
skimming  like  a  fleet  bird  over  the  plains.  I  fear 
you  not,  you  dastard  king!" 

Consigning  the  Infanta  into  the  hands  of  the 
palace  guards,  Don  Sancho  rushed  off  to  the 
apartments  of  the  queen.  For  once  that  wicked 
woman  was  powerless.  No  one  dared  harm  Dona 
Ava,  especially  as  rapid  news  soon  spread  of  the 
wild  joy  with  which  Fernan  had  been  received  in 
Burgos,  and  that,  at  the  head  of  his  army,  he  was 
marching  on  Leon. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  dark  King  of  Navarre, 
hard  pressed  by  the  Moors,  executing  forays  into 


274  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


the  north,  as  the  safety  of  his  daughter  was  at 
stake,  refused  to  use  his  troops  for  her  capture; 
thus  the  King  of  Leon  was  left  alone  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  attack,  pillaging,  demolishing,  and 
burning  in  true  mediaeval  style. 

But  Queen  Dona  Teresa  still  held  good. 

"Keep  her  close.  She  shall  not  go,  without 
the  ransom  of  half  his  kingdom, "  were  her  words. 

"Now,  by  Santiago!"  exclaims  the  exasperated 
king,  "ransom  or  no  ransom,  she  shall  go.  You 
ruined  the  kingdom  in  my  father's  time,  but,  by 
heaven!  you  shall  not  play  the  same  game  with 
me!" 

For  once  the  fat  king  insists.  The  Condesa 
de  Castila  is  to  be  restored  to  her  husband,  on 
condition  of  the  withdrawal  of  his  troops.  All 
seems  accommodated  when  an  unexpected  diffi- 
culty arises. 

That  little  account  for  the  horse  and  the  hawk, 
which  had  so  pleased  the  King  of  Leon  on  his 
cousin's  first  visit,  accepted  on  the  condition  of 
making  payment  in  a  year  or  of  doubling  the  price, 
had  never  been  settled,  and  it  had  grown  so 
enormous  that  King  Sancho  found  himself  at  a  loss 
to  find  the  money.  Convenient  Jews  did  not 
exist  in  those  days  as  we  read  of  later  in  the  time 
of  the  Cid.  Now,  even  a  royal  debtor  looks  round 
in  vain  for  help. 

It  was  in  vain  that  King  Sancho  cursed  the 
horse  and  cursed  the  hawk,  then  cursed  them 
both  together ;  that  did  no  good,  the  debt  remained 


DONA  AVA  OUTWITS  DON  SANCHO    275 

unpaid.  In  this  world  from  little  causes  spring 
great  events.  That  horse  and  hawk,  so  innocently 
purchased  from  the  bright-faced  Conde,  were 
finally  the  cause  of  the  independence  of  Castile. 
Not  able  to  discharge  the  debt,  King  Don  Sancho 
agreed  to  free  Castile  from  all  vassalage  to  Leon. 
And  the  Conde  and  the  Infanta  rode  back  in  tri- 
umph to  Burgos,  as  the  founders  of  that  dynasty 
which  became  the  most  powerful  and  glorious  of 
the  Peninsula,  to  merge  at  last  in  the  royal  crown 
of  Spain. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  Cid— 1037 

OW  we  come  upon  a  larger  view,  a 
more  extended  horizon  of  Old  Court 
Life,  hitherto  shut  up  in  the  pastoral 
city  of  Leon. 

Don  Fernando  el  Magno  is  king.  He  has  trans- 
ferred the  Christian  capital  to  Burgos  on  succeeding 
to  the  states  of  Leon,  Castile,  and  Galicia  by  the 
death  of  his  brother-in-law,  Bernardo  the  Third, 
in  right  of  his  wife,  Dona  Sancha. 

Succeeded  is  hardly  the  fit  word,  for  Fernando 
actually  slew  Bernardo  in  the  battle  of  Tamara, 
clearing  thus  for  himself  the  way;  for  Bernardo's 
sister  Sancha  was  the  last  of  the  second  line  of  the 
Gothic  kings  descended  from  Pelayo. 

From  the  time  of  Fernan  Gonzales,  Castile  be- 
came a  kingdom  instead  of  a  county,  as  the  Conde 
would  have  had  it,  only  he  died  too  soon;  and 
though  still  mixed  up  in  continual  battles  with  the 
Moors  about  Saragossa,  Toledo,  Merida,  Samego, 
and  Badajos  (each  town  and  city  a  small  kingdom 
of  its  own) ,  the  greater  part  of  the  north-centre  of 
Spain  belonged  to  the  Christians,  rough  warriors  for 
the  most  part  and  fond  of  fighting,  of  little  educa- 

276 


the  ar>- 1 037  277 


tion,  narrow-minded,  poor,  and  rapacious.  So  poor 
indeed  and  rapacious  that  they  constantly  served 
the  Moors  against  themselves  as  condottieri,  or 
mercenaries,  as  is  heard  of  later  in  French  and 
Italian  wars. 

Now  the  Moors  might  be  cruel  and  blood- 
thirsty, but  their  crimes  were  those  of  a  highly 
civilised  race,  the  very  salt  of  the  earth  com- 
pared to  the  Gothic  Spaniards — only  the  Moors 
were  falling  gradually  asunder  by  reason  of  dis- 
sensions amongst  the  various  races  of  which  the 
nation  was  composed. 

So  the  Christians  grew  bold  as  the  others  waxed 
weak,  and  though  Fernando  el  Magno  committed 
the  folly  of  dividing  his  kingdom  among  his  five 
children,  it  all  came  together  again  under  his 
unscrupulous  successor,  Alonso  el  Valiente,  sixth 
of  that  name  (1173). 

Fernando  el  Magno  was  out  and  out  the  most 
powerful  king  that  had  reigned  in  Spain  since  the 
time  of  Roderich.  He  held  an  iron  grip  on  the 
Moors,  with  great  cities  tributary  to  him.  In  fact, 
it  was  only  the  payment  of  heavy  tribute  which 
kept  them  in  possession  so  long.  Money  was  money 
in  those  days,  from  whatever  source  it  came,  and 
in  the  impoverished  north  there  was  little  of  it. 

Fernando  was  a  good  king,  according  to  his 
lights,  upon  whose  conscience  the  murder  of  his 
brother-in-law  Bernardo  lay  lightly.  Had  he  not 
slain  Bernardo,  Bernardo  would  undoubtedly  have 
killed   him,   in   which   case   royal   murder   comes 


278  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

under  the  head  of  self-defence.  So  he  reigned 
happily  at  Burgos,  and  had  born  to  him  a  nu- 
merous family.  Dona  Urraca,  the  Infanta,  was  his 
eldest  child,  a  most  excellent  lady  of  good  customs 
and  beauty,  the  Infante  Don  Sancho,  who  was 
to  make  much  noise  in  the  world,  was  his  heir, 
and  Don  Alonso  and  Don  Garcia  were  his  younger 
sons. 

Fernando  put  them  all  to  read  that  they  might 
gain  understanding,  and  he  made  his  sons  knights 
to  carry  arms  and  know  how  to  demean  themselves 
in  battle,  also  to  be  keen  huntsmen.  Dona 
Urraca  was  brought  up  in  the  studies  becoming 
dames,  so  that  she  might  be  instructed  in  devotion 
and  all  things  which  it  behoved  an  Infanta  to 
know. 

But  there  is  one  fact  which  makes  the  name  of 
Fernando  remembered  to  all  time,  for  in  his  reign 
was  born  at  Burgos,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  known 
as  the  famous  Capitdn,  the  Cid  Campeador. 

Beside  the  glittering  vision  of  Santiago,  the 
tutelary  saint  of  Spain,  in  white  armour,  waving 
celestial  banners,  rises  the  image  of  the  Cid.  En- 
cased in  steel,  he  sits  proudly  astride  on  his  good 
horse  Babieca;  a  close  casque  on  his  head,  under 
which  a  pair  of  all-seeing  eyes  gaze  fiercely  out, 
giving  expression  to  the  strongly  marked  features 
of  a  thin  long  face,  with  wildly  flying  beard.  His 
scimitar  hangs  at  his  side,  and  at  his  waist,  en- 
circled by  a  leather  thong,  the  formidable  sword 


THE  CII>-t037  279 


"Tizona"  he  alone  can  wield.  A  loose  white  gar- 
ment or  kilt  floats  out  from  under  his  armour,  metal 
buskins  are  on  his  legs,  and  he  is  shod  in  steel. 

Thus  he  appears,  with  mighty  action,  an  aureole 
of  power  about  him  not  to  be  put  in  words,  "the 
Cid"  or  "Master"— the  terror  of  the  Moors,  the 
scourge  of  traitorous  kings,  marking  an  epoch,  and 
a  principle,  lifting  him  out  of  the  confused  chivalry 
of  the  Goths,  and  standing  out  clear  from  shifting 
details  into  the  light  of  day. 

Cunning,  astute,  and  valorous,  implacable  in 
conquest,  sanguinary  in  victory,  he  fought  while 
he  lived.  A  king  in  all  but  the  name,  and  proud 
of  it,  boasting  with  haughty  scorn,  "That  none  of 
his  blood  were  royal";  "That  he  had  never  pos- 
sessed an  acre,"  "But  that  the  city  of  Valencia 
had  pleased  him,  and  that  God  had  permitted  him 
to  take  it  as  his  own."  "Spain,"  he  said,  "had 
fallen  by  a  Roderich,  and  by  a  Roderich  it  should 
be  restored." 

Now  he  was  battling  with  the  Christian  king, 
then  he  was  making  alliance  with  the  Moors,  when 
banished,  on  his  own  account — to  his  own  ad- 
vantage ever — por  murzar,  as  he  said  (to  eat) . 

For  in  the  midst  of  all  his  glory  the  Cid  was 
practical  at  heart,  and  at  all  times,  be  it  owned,  a 
sad  ruffian  (though  ever  tender  to  his  own),  and 
more  keen  and  cruel  in  a  bargain  than  a  Jew. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Don  Diegfo  Laynez  and  tHe  Conde 
de  Gormez 


WONDER  if  Burgos  looked  then 
as  it  does  now? — a  well- washed, 
trim  little  city,  Dutch  in  its  neat- 
ness, tinted,  upon  the  principle  of 
Joseph's  coat  of  many  colours,  pink,  blue,  peach, 
and  yellow;  each  house  totally  unlike  its  neigh- 
bour in  height  and  shape;  the  streets  sprouting 
out  all  over  with  balconies,  miradores,  and  low 
arcades  under  flat  roofs,  an  unexpected  Gothic 
tower  or  barbican  breaking  through;  entered  by 
the  ancient  gate  of  Santa  Maria  beside  the  bridge 
with  castellated  bartizans  and  statues  of  notables 
in  flat  square  niches. 

Of  the  Cathedral  I  say  nothing,  because  the 
present  one  was  built  later  by  Fernando  el 
Santo,  but  the  line  of  towers  of  the  Gothic  castle 
stood  out  darkly  prominent  on  the  hill  behind — 
Calle  Alta,  as  it  was  called — as  old  as  300;  the 
fortress  and  residence  of  the  Condes  de  Castila, 
and  the  place  where  the  bright-faced  Fernan 
Gonzales  lived  his  merry  life,  shutting  up  his 
prisoners — Garcia,  King  of  Navarre,  Dona  Ava's 

280 


LAYNEZ  AND  CONDE  DE  GORMEZ    281 


treacherous  father,  for  a  year,  and  other  kings 
and  queens  too  numerous  to  mention, — with  cele- 
brations of  royal  births  and  marriages  a  score; 
the  old  church  of  Sant'  Agueda,  an  Iglesia  jura- 
dera^  (church  of  purgation),  on  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  the  family  posada,  or  house  of  the  Cid,  to  be 
seen  to  this  day,  the  ancestral  shields  hung  out- 
side on  pedestals  forming  part  of  the  front,  setting 
forth  the  quarterings  of  Laynez  Calvo,  of  ancient 
Castilian  lineage,  the  father  of  the  Cid;  a  price- 
less old  Suelo,  on  which  you  can  still  observe  the 
measure  of  the  Cid's  arm,  marked  on  marble;  and 
the  mouth  of  a  mediaeval  passage  through  which 
he  could  ride  into  the  plains  with  his  men  without 
being  seen  by  the  citzens  in  the  streets  below. 

At  this  moment  "the  child  of  Burgos,"  as  the 
Cid  is  called,  has  thrown  aside  his  warlike  ac- 
coutrements, having  been  present  at  a  council  at 
the  Ayuntamiento  presided  over  by  the  king,  and 
is  now  on  his  way  to  visit  his  lady  love,  Dona 
Ximena,  the  daughter  of  the  Conde  de  Gormez. 

As  he  passes  along  the  Calle,  gay  as  a  butterfly 
in  the  bright  sunshine,  under  the  barbicans  and 
towers  which  so  nobly  break  the  lines,  it  may  be 
said  he  has  too  much  of  a  swagger  in  his  gait,  but 
he  has  reason  to  be  proud,  for,  young  as  he  is, 
Dona  Ximena  loves  him,  and  the  good  old  King 
Fernando  has  admitted  him  to  his  council  because 
he  is  already  strong  in  arms  and  of  good  custom. 

Just  as  Don  Rodrigo  has  passed  out  of  the 


282  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Palace  of  Ayuntamiento  (town  hall)  in  the  great 
plaza,  its  front  honeycombed  with  sculptured 
cornices,  badges,  and  devices  on  a  warmly  tinted 
stone,  two  hidalgos  appear  under  the  arched  door- 
way talking  loud. 

"I  tell  you  the  king  does  wrong,"  the  younger 
man  is  saying  in  a  loud  voice — no  other  than  the 
Conde  Don  Gormez,  with  flashing  eyes,  moving 
with  a  haughty  swagger,  a  tall  olive-complexioned 
Castilian  in  cap  and  plume,  laced  boots,  and  ample 
cloak,  "very  wrong  in  affronting  the  Emperor 
of  Germany  and  the  Pope  in  a  little  state  like 
Castile." 

"The  king  does  right,"  answers  the  other,  very 
determinedly,  but  in  a  feebler  voice,  for  he  is 
stricken  in  years.  "What,  Conde  Don  Gormez, 
would  you  have  Castile  do?  Become  bounden 
to  a  foreign  power,  when  we  have  so  lately  gained 
our  freedom  from  Leon?" 

"I  think  the  matter  ill-considered,"  is  the 
reply;  "but  of  course  you  approve  it,  Don  Diego 
Laynez.  The  king  is  old  and  foolish,  and  loves  age 
and  infirmity  about  him.  No  one  exceeds  you 
now  in  arrogance,  since  your  young  son  Rodrigo 
sits  by  you  at  the  council.  He  is  reported  of  good 
courage  against  the  Moors,  but  his  youth  makes 
him  incompetent  to  advise  the  king." 

"Conde  Gormez,"  answers  the  other,  reddening 
with  anger,  "your  indiscreet  words  prove  that  it  is 
not  age  or  experience  which  gives  judgment. " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Don  Diego?"  asks  the 


THE    GIRALDA.    SEVILLE. 


LAYNEZ  AND  CONDE  DE  GORMEZ    283 


Conde  fiercely.  "I  allow  no  observations  on  my 
conduct. " 

"I  do  not  condescend  to  fathom  it,"  is  the  an- 
swer, with  a  contemptuous  glance.  "Jealousy  and 
thirst  for  power " 

"Take  that,  old  fool, "  cried  the  Conde,  silencing 
him  with  a  sounding  blow  on  the  cheek,  which 
made  him  reel  backwards  against  the  wall. 

He  could  not  speak,  all  his  passion  had  vanished 
in  the  humiliation  of  being  struck.  White  and 
tottering  he  stood,  while  his  trembling  hand  sought 
the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"Mother  of  God!"  he  said  at  last,  "you  had 
better  have  finished  me  altogether  than  put  this 
insult  on  me.  Is  it  that  you  deem  my  arm  so 
weak  you  mock  me,  Sir  Count?"  And  as  he 
spoke,  with  difficulty  he  drew  his  sword. 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  replies  the  other  with  an  in- 
solent laugh.  "Put  up  your  weapon,  old  man, 
or  worse  may  come  to  you. " 

"No,  no,"  returns  Don  Diego,  the  colour 
mounting  to  his  cheek  as  his  fingers  feel  the  tem- 
per of  the  blade;  "as  knight  to  knight,  who  have 
so  often  stood  side  by  side  in  battle,  I  demand  a 
fair  fight  and  no  quarter. " 

"As  you  will,"  he  answers,  and  an  evil  fire 
comes  into  his  eyes.  "It  is  a  favour  which,  at 
your  age,  you  have  no  right  to  demand.  If  you 
desire  to  be  spitted,  I  will  oblige  you  all  the  same. " 

And  then  and  there  he  drew  his  rapier,  and 
placed  himself  in  a  posture  of  defence. 


284  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

But  the  combat  was  too  unequal.  It  lasted  but 
a  few  minutes.  The  Conde  de  Gormez  was  the 
first  espadero  in  Castile,  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
graceful,  skilful,  strong;  Don  Diego  was  old  and 
weak.  His  blows  fell  like  water  on  his  stal- 
wart adversary,  who  treated  him  as  one  does  a 
wayward  child. 

"Mark  you,"  he  said  at  last,  throwing  up  Don 
Diego's  sword,  "  I  spare  your  life.  Go  home,  you 
dotard,  and  teach  your  son  to  hold  his  tongue 
before  his  betters  and  learn  to  be  a  wiser  man. " 

With  that  he  sheathed  his  formidable  weapon, 
turned  his  back,  and  with  a  quick  step  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXVin 

Don  Rodrig'o  (tHe  Cid)   Hills  the 

Conde  de  Gormez 

|T  was  the  hottest  hour  of  the  day, 
when     the     citizens      took      their 
siesta;    the    sun    poured    down    in 
splendour    on    the     white     walls, 
absorbing  the  shade;  the  river  was  dried  up. 

No  one  had  witnessed  the  encounter.  But 
what  did  that  matter?  Conde  Gormez  would 
be  sure  to  publish  it  abroad.  Oh,  shame  and 
grief !     Don  Diego  was  for  ever  dishonoured ! 

Just  as,  with  wavering  steps,  he  was  addressing 
himself  to  seek  his  horse  where  he  had  left  him, 
he  heard  the  clank  of  spurs  upon  the  pavement, 
and  his  son  Rodrigo  appeared. 

"Well  met!"  cried  he,  clutching  his  arm  and 
gazing  up  wistfully  into  his  beaming  face;  "the 
saints  have  sent  you." 

"  May  their  blessing  be  ever  on  you,  my  honoured 
father,"  is  the  reply,  as  he  stops  to  kiss  his  hand. 
"I  was  hastening  home  to  tell  you  that  the  mar- 
riage is  fixed,  and  that  the  king,  Don  Fernando, 

285 


286  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

gives  away  the  bride.  But,  father,  are  you  ill?" 
noting  his  blanched  aspect  as  his  father  leaned 
heavily  upon  him. 

"Rodrigo,"  he  whispers,  and  with  an  unutter- 
able expression  of  despair  he  looks  into  his  eyes, 
"are  you  brave?" 

"Sir!"  answers  Rodrigo,  drawing  back  his  arm, 
"any  other  but  you  should  feel  it  on  the  instant. " 

"Oh,  blessed  anger!"  replies  Don  Diego,  watch- 
ing the  deep  flush  mounting  on  his  face,  "you  are 
indeed  my  son.  My  blood  flows  in  your  veins. 
I  was  like  that  once.  Prompt,  ready,  dexterous. 
Rodrigo,  will  you  avenge  me?" 

"For  what?"  asks  Rodrigo,  more  and  more 
perplexed. 

"For  that,"  returns  Don  Diego — and  as  he 
speaks  his  voice  gathers  strength  and  he  draws 
himself  back,  and  stands  upright  before  him — ■ 
"which  touches  your  honour  as  nearly  as  my  own. 
A  blow,  a  cruel  blow !  Had  I  been  of  your  age,  his 
blood  would  have  wiped  it  out.  But  it  is  not  with 
swords  such  an  outrage  is  avenged.  Go — die — or 
slay  him.  But  I  warn  you,  he  is  a  hero.  I  have 
seen  him  in  the  front  of  a  hundred  battles,  making 
a  rampart  of  his  body  against  the  foe.     He  is " 

"Tell  me,  father,  tell  me!"  exclaims  Don 
Rodrigo,  breathlessly  following  his  father's 
words. 

"The  father  of  Ximena. " 

"The " 

No  sound  came  to  his  white  lips.     As  if  struck 


THE  CID  KILLS  DE  GORMEZ  287 

by  a  mortal  blow,  Rodrigo  staggered  back  against 
the  sculptured  pilasters  of  the  Ayuntamiento. 

"Speak  not,  my  son,"  says  Don  Diego,  laying 
his  hand  upon  him.  "I  know  how  much  you  love 
her.  But  he  who  accepts  infamy  is  unworthy  to 
live.  I  have  told  you  vengeance  is  in  your  hand, 
for  me,  for  you.  Be  worthy  of  your  father,  who 
was  once  a  valiant  knight.  Go,  I  say, — rush — 
fly, — as  though  the  earth  burned  under  your 
footsteps !  Nor  let  me  behold  you  until  you  have 
washed  out  the  stain!" 

The  chronicles  say  that,  insolent  as  he  was,  the 
Conde  de  Gormez  had  already  repented  of  his 
furious  act.  Certain  of  the  wrath  of  the  king,  who 
greatly  esteemed  Don  Diego  Laynez,  and  shrink- 
ing from  the  reproaches  of  his  daughter,  he  was 
preparing  to  leave  the  city  when  he  came  upon 
the  Cid. 

They  met  beside  the  banks  of  the  Arlanzon, 
which  still  presents  the  sandy  emptiness  of  an  ill- 
fed  river,  under  a  screen  of  plane-trees  whispering 
to  the  summer  wind,  the  space  without  thronged 
with  hidalgos  and  cheerful  citizens  in  ample  cloaks 
and  capas  muffled  up  to  the  eyes,  spite  of  the 
heat,  in  true  Castilian  fashion. 

As  Don  Rodrigo,  with  lofty  stride,  approached, 
the  Conde  stood  still,  guessing  his  errand. 

Of  all  the  knights  of  Castile,  Don  Gormez  was 
a  palm  higher  than  the  rest.  A  dark  defiant 
head  was  firmly  set  on  massive  shoulders,  youthful 


288  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

in  aspect  for  his  period  of  middle  age,  an  approved 
and  complete  warrior  at  all  points,  and  full  to  the 
brim,  as  one  may  say,  of  the  chivalric  traditions  of 
the  time. 

Rodrigo  beside  him  looked  a  slender  youth; 
the  down  was  on  his  cheek,  the  lustre  of  boyhood 
in  his  eyes,  now  dilated  with  fury  as  he  drew  near. 

"Sir  Conde, "  he  says  shortly,  as  he  doffs  his 
cap,  to  which  the  other  responds  with  a  haughty 
smile,  "  I  ask  two  words  of  you. " 

"Speak!"  is  the  Conde 's  answer,  twirling  his 
moustache. 

"Tell  me,  do  you  know  Don  Diego,  my  father?" 

"Yes,"  in  a  loud  tone.     "Why  ask?" 

"Speak  lower.  Listen.  Do  you  know  that  in 
his  time  he  was  the  honour  of  the  land,  brave  as 
yourself  ?     You  know  it  ?  " 

Nearer  and  nearer  Rodrigo  came  as  he  spoke, 
until  their  faces  almost  touched. 

"  I  care  not, "  is  the  answer,  with  a  sneer. 

"Stand  back  in  the  shade  of  that  thicket  and  I 
will  teach  you,"  roars  the  Cid,  his  rage  bursting 
in  all  bounds. 

"Presumptuous  boy!"  exclaims  the  Conde 
with  ineffable  scorn;  yet,  spite  of  his  affected 
contempt,  the  words  have  stung  him,  and  he  turns 
crimson. 

"I  am  young,  it  is  true,"  answers  Rodrigo, 
"but  once  so  were  you.  Valour  goes  not  by  the 
number  of  our  years. " 

"You — you  dare  to  measure  yourself  with  me!" 


THE  CID  KILLS  DE  GORMEZ  289 

cries  he,  losing  all  control  in  the  climax  of   his 
rage. 

"I  do.  I  well  know  your  prowess.  You  have 
always  prevailed,  but  to  him  who  fights  for 
his  father  nothing  is  impossible.  Come  on,  Sir 
Conde, "  drawing  his  sword. 

"Seek  not  so  vainly  to  end  your  days, "  answers 
Gormez,  laying  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  weapon. 
"Your  death  will  be  no  credit  to  my  sword. " 

"Mock  me  not  by  this  insulting  pity,"  answers 
Rodrigo,  "  or  by  God  I  shall  think  it  is  you  who  are 
tired  of  living,  not  I. "  And  as  he  speaks  he  strikes 
the  Conde  de  Gormez  with  the  flat  of  his  sword. 

The  attack,  on  both  sides  is  furious.  Rod- 
rigo grows  cold  with  the  thirst  of  vengeance;  the 
Conde  burns  to  cut  off  a  life  which  rivals  with 
his  own. 

But  the  sure  aim  of  Rodrigo  and  his  strength 
prevail.  With  one  stroke  of  his  good  sword 
Tizona,  he  fells  Gormez  to  the  earth  and  plunges 
his  weapon  straight  into  his  heart.  Red  with  his 
life-blood  he  draws  it  out  to  bear  it  as  a  trophy  to 
his  father. 

"Die!  Lord  of  Gormez,"  are  his  words,  wiping 
his  brow,  as  he  watches  the  blood  slowly  ooze 
from  the  wound  to  mix  itself,  a  sinister  stream, 
with  the  sand.  "Alas !  had  your  courtesy  equalled 
your  knighthood  and  your  birth,  you  might  have 
lived  to  see  your  child's  children  mine.  Fare- 
well, oh  my  enemy";  and  he  stoops  reverently  to 
cover  the  face  of  the  dead  with  his  mantle,  reading 


290  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  while  with  horror  in  the  still  set  features  the 
softer  lineaments  of  his  Ximena.  "Alas!" — and 
his  countenance  darkens  and  he  heaves  a  great 
sigh — "I  am  but  Ruy  Diaz,  your  lover,  the  most 
wretched  of  men!  Oh!  that  I  could  lie  there 
dead,  instead  of  him!  Ximena,  oh,  my  love,  will 
you  ever  forgive  me?" 

And  sorrowing  thus  he  turns  away  by  in- 
tricate windings  to  mount  the  hill  to  the  Suelos 
where  Don  Diego  awaits  him,  seated  in  the  hall, 
the  food  lying  on  the  table  before  him  untouched. 

"Behold!"  cries  he,  unsheathing  the  bloody 
sword.  "The  tongue  which  insulted  you,  Don 
Diego,  is  no  longer  a  tongue;  the  hand  which 
struck  you  is  no  longer  a  hand.  You  are  avenged, 
oh,  my  father,  and  I " 

He  could  not  continue. 

With  a  loud  laugh  Don  Diego  rose  up,  taking 
in  his  hand  the  blood-stained  sword  and  placing 
it  beside  him  on  the  board  below  the  salt;  then 
turned  to  embrace  Rodrigo. 

He  spoke  never  a  word,  but  stood  like  one 
stupefied,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

"Son  of  my  heart,"  says  Don  Diego,  "I  pray 
you  turn  and  eat.  Mourn  not  what  you  have 
done.  My  youth  comes  back  to  me  in  you. 
Greater  than  me  shall  you  be,  and  win  back  broad 
lands  from  the  Moors,  and  be  rich  like  a  king,  when 
I  am  low  in  the  dust  Take  the  head  of  the  board, 
Rodrigo.     Higher  than  myself  is  the  place  of  the 


THE  CID  KILLS  DE  GORMEZ  291 

son  who  has  brought  the  sword  of  Conde  Gormez 
to  his  Suelos.  The  place  of  honour  is  yours,  and 
I  will  pledge  you  with  wine."  And  as  he  speaks 
the  old  man  rises,  and  taking  Rodrigo  by  the  hand 
places  him  above  him,  and  with  his  own  hand  serves 
him  with  meat  and  drink. 

Poetry  and  the  drama  in  latter  days  have  much 
dealt  with  the  story  of  the  Cid,  and  altogether 
altered  it  from  its  ancient  simplicity. 

Not  so  the  chronicles,  which  depict  the  facts  in 
the  language  of  the  time  very  straightforwardly, 
specially  the  chronicle  of  King  Alfonso  of  Castile, 
surnamed  El  Sabio,  written  soon  after  the  Cid's 
death.  If  not  penned  by  the  hand  of  the  king 
himself,  at  least  it  was  largely  dictated  by  him, 
and  not  at  all  partial,  for  as  King  of  Castile  he 
deeply  resented  the  rebellion  of  the  Cid  against 
his  father  Alonso. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Marriage  of  tKe  Cid  and  Dona  Ximena 

HREE  years  had  passed  when  King 
Fernando  solemnly  knighted 
Rodrigo. 

It  was  in  this  manner.  The  king 
girded  on  him  his  sword  Tizona,  to  become 
famous  to  all  time,  and  gave  him  a  kiss,  but 
no  blow;  the  queen  gave  him  a  horse,  perhaps 
Babieca;  and  the  Infanta  Dona  Urraca  stooped 
to  the  earth  and  fastened  on  his  spurs — an  act 
of  honour  so  exceptional  even  in  those  days  of 
chivalry  she  would  not  have  performed  it  unless 
Rodrigo  was  dearer  to  her  than  appeared.  But 
if  there  was  love  on  her  side  or  on  his,  or  on  both, 
is  not  known,  except  that  some  words  in  the 
chronicles  would  lead  one  to  suppose  that  the 
Cid  honoured  her  beyond  all  women,  and  that 
the  lady  herself  would  never  marry  a  meaner  man. 
From  that  day  he  was  called  the  Cid  Campeador. 
It  was  the  Moors  who  gave  him  the  title  of  "  Said  " 
(Cid)  or  "master,"  so  often  had  he  beaten  them, 
and  Campeador,  or  "  champion  "  in  single  combat, 
such  as  was  Roland  the  Brave,  slain  by  Bernardo 

del  Carpio. 

292 


THE  CID  AND  DONA  XIMENA  MARRY    293 

Especially  he  deserved  these  honours  when  he 
overcame  five  Moorish  kings,  who  had  presump- 
tuously crossed  the  mountain  of  Oca,  and  were 
plundering  the  plains  near  Burgos.  He  took 
them  captive,  divided  the  booty  with  his  knights, 
and  brought  them  to  his  mother  in  the  Suelos  on 
the  hill  with  great  honour.  "For  it  is  not  meet, " 
he  said,  "to  keep  kings  prisoners,  but  to  let  them 
go  freely  home." 

Like  a  practical  man,  however,  as  he  was,  he 
demanded  a  large  ransom. 

Fernando,  who  loved  Rodrigo,  endeavoured  to 
end  the  feud  between  the  families  of  Gormez  and 
Laynez.  Nor  was  it  difficult.  Don  Diego,  full 
of  years,  slept  the  sleep  of  death.  The  lord  of 
Gormez  was  slain,  and  Ximena  was  left,  the 
youngest  of  three  daughters. 

The  age  was  one  of  war,  and  knightly  honour 
counted  as  the  highest  virtue  in  a  man. 

So  when  the  king  called  her  to  him  in  the  castle, 
Ximena  answered,  falling  on  her  knees  before  him, 
according  to  the  love  she  bore  Rodrigo. 

"Don  King  Fernando,"  she  said,  "had  you  not 
sent  for  me,  I  would  have  craved  as  a  boon  that 
you  would  give  me  Rodrigo  to  be  my  husband. 
With  him  I  shall  hold  myself  well  married,  and 
greatly  honoured.  Certain  I  am  that  he  will  one 
day  be  greater  than  any  man  in  the  kingdom  of 
Castile,  and  as  his  wife  I  truly  pardon  him  for 
what  he  did. " 

So  King  Fernando  ordered  letters  to  be  sent  to 


294  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  Cid  at  Valencia,  commanding  him  at  once  to 
return  to  Burgos  upon  an  affair  greatly  for  God's 
service  and  his  own. 

He  came  mounted  on  his  war-horse,  attired  in 
his  fairest  suit  of  chain  armour,  wearing  that 
high  steel  cap  in  which  we  see  him  now;  his  rip- 
pling braids  of  hair  hanging  down  on  his  shoulders 
in  the  ancient  fashion  of  the  Goths,  and  in  his  com- 
pany were  many  knights,  both  his  own  and  of  his 
kindred  and  friends — in  all  two  hundred  peers — 
in  festive  guise,  streamers  in  various  colours  fly- 
ing from  their  shields,  and  scarfs  upon  their  arms, 
each  knight  attended  by  a  mounted  squire  bear- 
ing his  lance  and  cognisance. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle  beside  the  keep 
the  king  received  them  sitting  on  his  throne;  the 
queen  and  her  ladies  and  Dona  Urraca,  resting  on 
raised  estrades  tented  with  silk,  attired  in  brocade 
and  tissue,  lined  with  rare  fur. 

As  he  entered  the  enclosure  which  was  marked 
with  gilded  poles,  the  Cid  dismounted,  as  did  the 
other  knights,  to  do  obeisance  to  the  king  and 
queen,  but  he  alone  advanced  to  kiss  the  royal  hand 
— a  distinction  which  greatly  offended  his  fellows, 
who  were  further  angered  by  being  dismissed  while 
Rodrigo  was  invited  to  remain  beside  the  king. 

"I  have  called  you,  my  good  Rodrigo,"  said 
King  Fernando,  with  a  voice  lowered  to  reach  his 
ear  alone,  "to  question  you  respecting  Dona 
Ximena  de  Gormez,  whose  sire  you  slew.  She 
is  too  fair  a  flower  to  bloom  alone." 


THE  CID  AND  DONA  XIMENA  MARRY    295 


At  these  words  Don  Rodrigo  reddened  like  a 
boy  and  hung  his  head. 

So  greatly  was  he  moved  who  had  never  known 
fear  that  the  power  of  speech  left  him  suddenly, 
and  for  a  time  he  stood  like  one  distraught. 
Whether  the  eyes  of  Dona  Urraca  being  upon 
him  he  was  confused,  or  that  the  transport  of  love 
he  felt  for  Ximena  overcame  him,  who  knows? 

"Speak,  noble  Cid,  I  pray  you,"  said  the  king 
at  last,  weary  of  waiting. 

"It  is  for  you,  my  gracious  lord  and  king,  to 
question  me,"  was  at  last  his  answer.  "Alas! 
her  blood  is  on  my  hand. " 

"  In  fair  fight, "  was  the  rejoinder,  "  as  becomes  a 
belted  knight.  But  the  lady  already  forgives 
you,  and  would  rejoice  to  be  your  bride.  I  have 
it  from  herself.  Nor  shall  my  favour  be  wanting 
to  you  both  in  lands  and  gifts. " 

Then  Rodrigo  raised  his  head  proudly,  and  his 
face  lit  with  joy.  Whatever  tokens  had  passed 
between  him  and  Dona  Urraca,  it  was  clear  he  had 
not  forgotten  his  love  to  Ximena,  nor  questioned 
the  claim  she  had  upon  him. 

"In  this,  as  in  all  else,  I  will  obey  my  lord  the 
king, "  he  said  again,  making  obeisance  on  bended 
knee.  "  Dear  shall  Ximena  be  to  me  as  my  own 
life,  and  my  honoured  mother  shall  tend  and  keep 
her  in  our  house  while  I  am  away  on  my  lord's 
business  against  the  Moors." 

King  Don  Fernando,  greatly  contented,  rose 
from  his  throne,  and  bidding  Don  Rodrigo  follow 


296  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

him,  he  passed  into  the  great  court  of  the  castle 
followed  by  the  queen  and  Dona  Urraca,  already 
of  great  courage,  and  casting  glances  at  the  Cid 
from  under  the  silken  coil  which  bound  her  head. 
Not  so  hidden  but  that  some  of  the  court  observed 
her,  and  remembered  it  later  at  Zamora,  when 
the  Cid  refused  to  bear  arms  against  her. 

Within  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  the  marriage 
feast  is  held.  The  whole  city  is  hung  with 
garlands  and  tapestry,  banners,  flags,  and  devices, 
as  though  each  street  is  a  separate  tent;  the 
people  swarming  on  balconies  and  roofs,  and  the 
sandy  plain  outside  dark  with  the  companies  of 
knights  who  come  riding  in.  All  the  great  names 
are  there — Ordonez,  Gonzalez,  Peranzurez,  Velli- 
das,  on  fleet  Arab  steeds;  some  rich  turbans  also 
of  the  Moors  to  be  distinguished  in  the  crowd, 
for  the  parties  are  so  strangely  mixed  that  the  Cid 
has  many  close  friends  among  his  enemies.  Crowds 
of  the  common  folk  come,  and  retainers  from  the 
castle  of  Bivar,  each  one  with  some  story  to  tell 
about  the  Cid.  From  Las  Huelgas,  the  royal 
burying-ground  and  fortress,  surrounded  by  walls, 
a  mile  out  of  the  city,  arrives  the  abbess,  who 
takes  rank  as  a  Princess  Palatine,  attended  by 
her  female  chapter,  in  the  full  dress  of  the  order, 
all  mounted  on  mules;  monks  from  the  Church 
of  San  Pedro  de  Cardena,  the  burying  place  of 
the  Laynez,  and  companies  of  the  Ricoshombres 
from  the  adjacent  cities,  trotting  over  the  hills — ■ 
all  disappearing  into  the  huge  gateway  of  Santa 


THE  CID  AND  DONA  XIMENA  MARRY    297 

Maria  to  reach  the  Calle  Alta,  where  the  procession 
is  to  be  formed. 

The  first  to  appear  is  the  Bishop  of  Valencia  on 
a  mule.  He  is  followed  by  the  Cid,  decked  in  his 
bridal  state,  under  a  trellis-work  of  green  branches, 
held  up  by  the  lances  and  scimitars  he  has  taken 
from  the  Moors,  his  own  troop  of  true  men  with 
him,  friends  and  kinsmen — all  dressed  in  one 
colour,  and  shining  in  new  armour. 

As  he  passes,  olive  branches  and  rushes  are  laid 
upon  the  streets,  ladies  fling  posies  and  wreaths, 
and  bulls  are  led  before  with  gilded  horns,  covered 
with  rich  housings.  The  court  fool  follows  in  cap 
and  bells,  his  particoloured  legs  astride  an  ass. 
A  harmless  devil  comes  after,  horned  and  hoofed, 
hired  to  frighten  the  women,  and  crowds  of  captive 
maidens  dance  to  cymbals  and  flutes.  The 
Queen  Dona  Sancha  walks  next,  wearing  her  crown 
and  a  "fur  pall,"  attended  by  her  ladies  and 
duenas,  but  the  name  of  Dona  Urraca  nowhere 
occurs. 

Then,  hand  in  hand  with  the  smiling  king, 
comes  Ximena;  "the  king  always  talking,"  as 
the  ballad  says,  but  Ximena  holding  down  her 
head.  "  It  is  better  to  be  silent  than  meaningless,  " 
she  said. 

Upon  her  fall  showers  of  yellow  wheat.  Every 
shooter,  young  and  old,  makes  her  his  mark. 
From  her  white  shoulders  and  breast  the  king 
picks  it  off.  "A  fine  thing  to  be  a  king,"  laughs 
the  fool,  "  but  I  would  rather  be  a  grain. " 


298  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

In  the  Gothic  Church  of  Sant'  Agueda,  close 
on  the  hill,  the  nuptial  knot  is  tied.  After  which 
the  king  does  them  great  honour  at  the  feast, 
conferring  on  them  many  noble  gifts  and  adding 
to  the  lands  of  the  Cid  more  than  as  much  again. 

To  his  own  Suelos  on  the  hill  (for  indeed  all 
these  great  doings  were  confined  to  a  very  narrow 
space),  the  Cid  conducts  his  bride,  to  place  her 
under  his  mother's  keeping,  and  as  his  foot  touches 
his  own  threshold,  under  the  escutcheon  of  his 
race,  he  pauses  and  kisses  her  on  the  cheek.  "By 
the  love  I  bear  you,  dear  Ximena,  I  swear  that 
I  will  never  set  eyes  on  you  again  until  I  have  won 
five  pitched  battles  against  the  Moors."  Again 
he  kisses  her,  drying  her  tears;  then  goes  out  to 
the  frontier  of  Aragon,  taking  with  him  his  trusty 
knights. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

DeatK  of  King  Fernando — Dona  Urraca 

at   Zamora 


|FTER  this  there  was  a  great  change. 
The  good  king  Fernando  fell  ill 
with  the  malady  of  which  he  died. 
For  three  days  he  lay  on  his  bed 
lamenting  in  pain;  on  the  fourth,  at  the  hour 
of  sexte,  he  called  to  him  his  son  Don  Sancho, 
and  recommended  him  to  the  Cid,  to  give  him 
good  counsel,  and  not  to  go  against  his  will, 
which  was  to  divide  the  kingdom  into  three 
parts,  a  most  unaccountable  act,  seeing  that  all  his 
life  he  had  been  fighting  to  maintain  it  united. 

With  Don  Sancho  came  the  other  Infantes, 
Alfonso  and  Garcia,  and  stood  round  his  bed — all 
three  comely  youths,  and  very  expert  in  knightly 
exercises,  but  as  yet  too  young  to  carry  a  beard. 
Alfonso  and  Garcia  were  well  contented  with  their 
kingdom,  but  Don  Sancho,  the  eldest,  was  wroth 
against  his  father,  and  already  turned  in  his  mind 
how  he  could  overcome  his  brothers  and  possess 
Castile  and  Leon  alone. 

Fernando,  suffering  great  anguish,  had  turned 
299 


300  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

his  face  to  the  wall  to  die,  when  his  daughter  Dofia 
Urraca  came  rushing  in. 

"Oh,  father!"  cries  she,  kissing  his  hand,  "if 
God  had  not  laid  His  hand  upon  you,  and  brought 
you  to  this  death  hour,  I  should  reproach  you 
bitterly.  It  is  well  known  you  have  meted  out 
your  kindgom  between  my  three  brothers.  To 
me  alone  you  give  nothing.  Why  should  your 
daughter  be  left  to  be  blown  like  a  waif  before 
the  wind?  Whither  can  I  fly?  Shall  I  address 
myself  to  the  Moors  for  protection.  A  fine  sight, 
indeed,  will  it  be  to  see  a  king's  daughter  brought 
to  such  a  pass!" 

Now  Dofia  Urraca  was  a  princess  of  great  pre- 
sence and  power  in  her  speech.  Her  words  were 
cutting,  and  they  roused  even  the  dying  king. 
Slowly  he  turned  on  his  side  to  look  at  her,  and 
though  his  lips  were  already  livid  his  eyes  showed 
he  understood ;  thrice  he  essayed  to  speak ;  at  last, 
between  pangs  of  mortal  pain,  the  words  came  forth : 

"Cease,  Urraca,  cease;  a  noble  mother  bore 
you,  but  a  churlish  slave  gave  you  milk.  Take 
Zamora  for  your  portion;  may  my  curse  fall  on 
any  of  your  brothers  who  take  it  from  you. " 

"  Swear  to  me,  my  sons. " 

"Amen, "  answered  Don  Alfonso  heartily,  for  he 
loved  his  sister.  Don  Garcia,  the  youngest,  re- 
peated the  same;  only  Don  Sancho  moved  his  lips, 
but  no  word  came. 

Zamora  la  ben  cercada,  a  Moorish  fortress  as  the 


DEATH  OF  KING  FERNANDO  301 


name  indicates,  lately  conquered  by  Fernando, 
stands  on  the  river  Duero,  which  flows  away  to 
the  west  through  a  beautifully  wooded  valley, 
in  the  kingdom  of  Leon,  between  Valladolid  and 
Medina.  It  was  then  surrounded  by  seven  lines 
of  walls,  with  deep  moats  between.  From  the 
bridge  by  the  city  walls  is  still  to  be  seen  the  ruins 
of  the  palace  of  Dona  Urraca,  with  her  likeness,  a 
mutilated  head  in  a  niche  over  the  gateway,  and 
the  inscription,  Afuera  Afuera  Rodrigo  el  soberbio 
Castellano. 

Within  her  council  chamber  sits  the  Infanta,  the 
white  coif  of  a  queen  under  a  Gothic  crown  on  her 
auburn  head  and  long  robes  of  black  about  her 
stately  form.  She  is  accustomed  to  the  calm 
majesty  of  state,  but  her  blue  eyes  shine  with 
wonderful  lustre,  and,  spite  of  herself,  her  fingers 
move  nervously  on  the  rich  carving  of  her  chair. 
The  Cid  Campeador  is  coming,  sent  by  her  brother 
Don  Sancho,  who  is  encamped  outside,  and  has 
ridden  three  times  round  the  walls  to  study  the 
defences,  attended  by  his  knights. 

For  no  sooner  was  the  breath  out  of  his  father's 
body  than  he  attacked  his  brothers,  and  now  he  is 
come  to  take  Zamora. 

With  Dona  Urraca  in  the  council  chamber  are 
Don  Pero  Anonras,  Don  Vellido,  and  Dolfos,  a 
knight  of  no  good  fame,  but  devoted  to  her  service. 

The  Cid  enters  in  full  armour,  a  green  feather  in 
his  casque.  His  face  has  lost  the  sweetness  of 
youth,  and  is  hard  and  thin,  the  nose  arched  and 


302  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

prominent  in  advanced  life,  and  his  eyes  of 
such  searching  fierceness  that  he  terrifies  his 
enemies  before  he  draws  his  sword. 

Not  now;  for  as  the  Infanta  hastens  to  the  door 
to  greet  him,  and  he  sinks  on  one  knee  to  kiss  her 
dimpled  hand,  his  face  melts  into  the  most  winning 
softness,  and  he  smiles  on  her  as  she  leads  him  to 
the  estrade,  enclosed  by  golden  banisters,  within 
which  her  chair  of  state  is  placed. 

11  Now,  Cid, "  says  Dona  Urraca,  when  they  have 
seated  themselves,  "what  is  my  brother  about  to 
do?  All  Spain  is  in  arms.  Is  it  against  the 
Moors  or  the  Christians?" 

"Lady,"  he  answers — and  the  tone  of  his 
voice  is  wonderfully  subdued — "the  king  your 
brother  sends  to  greet  you  by  me.  He  beseeches 
you  to  give  up  to  him  the  fortress  of  Zamora;  he 
will  in  return  swear  never  to  do  you  harm. " 

"And  you,  Don  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar,  bring  me 
such  a  message!"  she  exclaims,  half  rising  from 
her  chair,  a  great  reproach  coming  into  her  blue 
eyes;  "you,  who  have  been  brought  up  with  me 
in  this  very  city  of  Zamora,  which  my  father 
conquered!" 

"I  did  not  want  to  be  the  messenger,"  replies 
the  Cid,  gazing  into  her  comely  face  with  a  great 
freedom  of  admiration,  "except  that  I  might  again 
see  my  Infanta,  and  give  her  some  comfort.  I 
strove  with  the  king  not  to  send  me.  How  could 
I  refuse  him  whom  I  have  sworn  to  stand  by? 
Better  I  than  another  man." 


DONA  URRACA  AT  Z A  MORA  303 

"That  is  true,"  she  replies,  "but  I  think  before 
you  swore  to  the  king,  my  father,  you  had  bound 
yourself  to  me." 

Now  this  speech  put  the  Cid  in  a  great  strait. 
He  and  Dona  Urraca  had  had  love  passages  to- 
gether as  long  as  he  could  remember,  yet  he  had 
wooed  another  and  married  her,  and  the  Infanta 
was  still  alone.  The  Cid  was  great  in  battle,  but  he 
was  simple  in  the  language  of  love.  All  he  could 
do  was  to  hang  his  head  and  blush,  which  made 
Dona  Urraca  very  angry. 

"Wretch  that  I  am!"  cries  she,  clasping  her 
hands,  "what  evil  messages  have  I  had  since  my 
father's  death?  This  is  the  worst  of  all.  As  for 
my  brothers,  Alfonso  is  among  the  Moors;  Garcia 
imprisoned  like  a  slave  with  an  iron  chain ;  I  must 
give  up  Zamora;  and  Ruy  Diaz,  my  playmate 
is  come  to  tell  me  so!  Now  may  the  earth  open 
and  swallow  me  up  that  I  may  not  suffer  so  many 
wrongs!     Remember,  I  am  a  woman!" 

To  all  this  the  Cid  answers  nothing.  He  is 
bound  by  his  oath  to  the  king,  but  his  darkened 
countenance  shows  how  much  he  is  moved  as  he 
sits  straight  upright  on  the  estrade,  contemplating 
the  face  of  Dona  Urraca. 

Then  her  foster-father,  Don  Arias  Gonzalo, 
stands  out  from  the  other  counsellors,  and 
says,  "Lady  Dona  Urraca,  prove  the  men  of 
Zamora,  whether  they  will  cleave  to  you  or  to 
Don  Sancho. "  To  which  she  agrees,  and  calling 
in  her  ladies  to  bring  her  mantilla  and  manto,  she 


304  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

goes  out  through  the  broad  corridor  of  the  palace 
in  which  the  banners  and  the  armour  are  hung, 
by  the  gateway  with  her  effigy  over  it,  down  to 
the  church  of  San  Salvador;  the  Cid,  as  her 
brother's  messenger,  walking  on  her  right  hand. 

The  townsmen  arrive,  called  by  the  voice  of 
Don  Mino,  and  thus  they  speak: 

"We  beseech  you,  Dona  Lady  Infanta,  not  to 
give  up  Zamora.  We  will  spend  all  our  money, 
and  devour  our  mules  and  horses;  nay,  even  feast 
on  our  own  children,  in  your  defence.  If  you 
cleave  to  us,  we  will  cleave  to  you. " 

Dona  Urraca  was  well  pleased.  She  had  a  bitter 
tongue  but  a  warm  heart,  and  now  it  was  touched. 
The  beauty  returned  to  her  countenance  as  she 
turned  it  on  the  Cid,  the  stately  beauty  of  royalty 
to  which  no  lower  born  can  attain. 

"See,  Cid  Campeador, "  she  says,  proudly 
launching  on  him  a  look  out  of  her  glowing  eyes, 
"many  kings  would  have  envied  you,  who  were 
bred  up  with  me,  yet  you  hold  me  of  little  count. 
Go  to  my  brother,  and  entreat  him  to  leave  me 
alone.  I  would  rather  die  with  these  men  in 
Zamora  than  live  elsewhere.  Tell  him  what  you 
have  seen  and  heard,  and  may  God  speed  you  on 
the  way."     With  which  answer  the  Cid  departs. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
Don  Alfonso  BanisKes  tKe  Cid 

|0N  SANCHO  was  young.  He  was 
arrogant.  He  had  already  crowned 
himself  king  of  the  three  kingdoms, 
and  believed  he  was  invincible.  As 
the  Cid  entered  his  tent  and  delivered  Dona 
Urraca's  message,  he  turned  upon  him  savagely. 
"This  is  your  counsel,"  he  cried.  "Oh,  Cid, 
such  courage  does  not  belong  to  a  woman!  My 
sister  defies  me  because  you  were  bred  up  with 

her,  and  because " 

What  more  Don  vSancho  might  have  said, 
remained  unspoken,  for  the  Cid  broke  in  with  a 
terrible  oath : 

"It  is  false.  I  have  served  you  faithfully, 
according  to  my  word.  But  I  declare  I  will  not 
take  arms  against  the  Infanta,  nor  against  the 
city  of  Zamora,  because  of  the  days  that  are 
past." 

"Traitor!"  shouted  Don  Sancho,  incensed 
beyond  all  bounds.  "If  it  were  not  for  my 
father,  I  would  order  you  this  instant  to  be 
hanged!" 

It  is  not  your  father's  desires,  but  your  own 
305 


306  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

use  for  me  which  restrains  you,  Don  Sancho. 
Have  you  not  two  brothers  alive?  And  who  shall 
gainsay  me  if  I  place  one  of  them  on  the  throne?" 

Without  another  word  the  Cid  turned  and  left 
the  tent,  and  calling  to  him  his  kinsmen  and 
friends,  rode  out  of  the  camp  towards  Toledo. 

King  Don  Sancho,  greatly  alarmed,  sent  after 
him  and  brought  him  back. 

So  hard-pressed  was  Zamora,  that  although 
Dona  Urraca  was  of  a  stout  heart,  she  determined, 
by  the  advice  of  her  foster-father  and  her  council, 
as  she  would  not  willingly  see  all  her  people  die,  to 
retreat  with  them  to  Toledo,  to  join  her  brother, 
Don  Alfonso,  who  was  with  the  Moors. 

Now  this  was  exactly  what  the  traitor  Dolfos 
was  waiting  for. 

"Lady  Dona  Infanta,"  he  said,  kissing  her 
hand  as  she  sat  on  an  ancient  seat  in  her  retiring 
room  debating  what  she  was  to  do,  signs  of  hunger 
and  grief  on  her  royal  face,  "I  have  served  you 
long,  and  never  had  any  reward,  though  I  have 
seen  you  gracious  to  other  men.  But  if  you  will 
look  with  favour  on  me,  I  will  make  Don  Sancho 
raise  the  siege. " 

Now  this  speech,  which  the  chroniclers  give  us 
word  for  word,  would  seem  to  infer  either  that  he 
was  a  villain,  who  took  advantage  of  her  strait, 
or  that  Dona  Urraca  was  not  that  faultless  dame 
we  would  fain  believe  her  to  be. 

Her  answer,  too,  was  calm,  as  of  one  to  whom 
the  aspirations  of  love  were  no  strange  matter. 


DON  ALFONSO  BANISHES  THE  CID    307 


"  Don  Dolfos,  I  will  answer  you  as  the  wise  men 
did  the  fool.  Bargains  are  made  with  the  slothful, 
and  with  those  in  need.  I  am  in  sore  need.  I  do 
not  bid  you  to  commit  an  evil  deed,  but  I  say 
there  is  nothing  I  would  not  grant  to  the  man  who 
saves  Zamora  from  the  king. " 

Again  Dolfos  kissed  her  hand. 

Now  it  is  well  known  that  the  king  was  treacher- 
ously slain  by  Dolfos,  with  his  own  gilded  hunting- 
spear,  outside  the  walls,  believing  that  he  had  come 
to  him  secretly  pretending  to  give  Zamora  up. 
The  Cid,  who  was  riding  near,  met  him  flying  back 
towards  the  postern,  and  charged  him  with  the 
deed,  but  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  got  back 
within  the  walls.  The  Cid,  eager  to  pursue  him, 
took  his  lance  from  his  esquire,  but  did  not  wait 
to  buckle  on  his  spurs,  which  was  the  only  fault 
ever  found  with  him  in  all  his  life. 

Without  spurs  he  could  not  urge  his  horse  as 
swiftly  as  the  other,  and  so  he  escaped. 

Once  inside  the  postern,  Dolfos,  in  mortal  fear 
of  those  within,  rushed  to  the  palace  and  flung 
himself  at  Dona  Urraca's  feet,  drawing  her  royal 
mantle  over  him  for  protection. 

But  when  her  foster-father,  Don  Arias,  knew  it, 
he  went  to  her  and  spoke: 

"My  Infanta,  you  cannot  harbour  this  traitor, 
otherwise  all  the  Castilians  outside  will  accuse 
you  of  murder." 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  answers.  "See  how  he 
clings  to  my  robe. " 


308  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

She  knew  she  had  encouraged  him  in  what  he 
had  done,  and  in  the  letters  she  had  written,  and 
fain  would  she  have  saved  him.  But  Don  Arias 
would  listen  to  nothing. 

"Give  Dolfos  up  to  me;"  and  he  drew  him 
away  by  force,  the  poor  wretch  trembling  all 
over,  with  no  strength  to  stand.  "  Come,  Dolfos, " 
says  Don  Arias,  "be  of  good  cheer;  to  please  the  In- 
fanta, I  will  hide  you  three  days  in  my  house.  If 
the  Castilians  impeach  us,  I  must  give  you  up. 
If  they  do  not,  you  shall  escape  from  the  town. 
Here  you  cannot  bide,  for  we  are  honourable 
men,  and  keep  no  company  with  traitors." 

After  King  Sancho's  death  came  Don  Alfonso, 
to  be  known  as  El  Sabio,  to  join  his  sister  at 
Zamora,  who  had  always  loved  him  well. 

A  council  was  called  in  the  palace.  The  Castil- 
ians, Navarrese,  Leonese,  and  the  Gallegos,  being 
already  his  subjects,  are  ready  to  acknowledge  him 
as  king  if  he  can  clear  himself  of  all  knowledge  of 
the  murder  of  his  brother. 

The  ricoshombres,  counts  and  knights,  the 
prelates  and  chief  persons  have  already  kissed  his 
hand;  but  the  Cid  sits  apart.  The  image  of  his 
dead  master  rises  up  between  him  and  Alfonso.  It 
was  he  who  had  found  Don  Sancho  by  the  side 
of  the  Douro  wounded  to  death  by  his  own 
hunting-spear,  which  he  dared  not  draw  forth  for 
fear  of  killing  him  outright. 

"Now,  how  is  this,  Cid  Campeador?"  asks  the 
new  king,  who,  in  majesty  of  person  and  speech 


DON  ALFONSO  BANISHES  THE  CID    309 

and  wisdom,  was  much  more  like  his  sister  Dona 
Urraca  than  Don  Sancho.  "See  you  not  that  all 
have  received  me  for  their  lord  except  you?  Why 
have  you  not  kissed  my  hand?" 

"Sir,"  answers  the  Cid,  rising  from  where  he 
sat,  "the  reason  is  this:  all  these  present,  as  well 
as  I,  suspect  you  of  having  compassed  your 
brother's  death.  Unless  you  can  clear  yourself,  I 
will  never  kiss  your  hand  or  acknowledge  you  as 
king." 

"  Your  words  please  me  well, "  is  the  king's  reply, 
spoken  softly,  but  rage  was  in  his  heart.  "I 
swear  to  God  and  St.  Mary  I  never  slew  him  or 
took  counsel  of  his  death,  and  I  will  clear  myself 
of  the  charge  by  oath  within  the  church  of  Sant' 
Agueda  at  Burgos." 

The  ancient  church  of  St.  Gaden  or  Sant' 
Agueda,  not  far  from  the  Suelos  of  the  Cid,  and 
where  he  was  married,  is  filled  with  the  noblest 
company  in  Castile;  the  Cid,  towering  over  all,  at 
the  high  altar,  in  chain  armour  from  top  to  heel, 
his  good  sword  Tizona  at  his  side,  and  in  his  hand 
a  cross-bow  of  wood  and  steel. 

Face  to  face  is  King  Alfonso  in  royal  robes,  his 
hand  upon  a  painted  missal  beside  the  Host. 

"King  Don  Alfonso,"  says  the  Cid,  in  his 
terrible  voice,  so  well  known  in  the  battle-field, 
"will  you  swear  that  you  have  not  compassed  the 
death  of  my  king  and  master,  your  brother  Don 
Sancho?  If  you  swear  falsely,  may  you  die  the 
death  of  a  traitor  and  a  slave. " 


310  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

To  which  King  Alfonso,  joining  his  hands  on 
the  Cid's  answers,  "Amen." 

But  he  changed  colour. 

Then  the  Cid  repeats  a  second  time,  "King 
Don  Alfonso,  will  you  further  swear  you  neither 
counselled  nor  favoured  the  murder  of  the  king, 
your  brother,  and  my  master?  If  you  swear 
falsely,  may  you  die  the  death  of  a  traitor  and  a 
slave." 

Again  the  king  presses  his  hand  and  answers, 
"Amen." 

But  he  changed  colour. 

Then  came  forth  twelve  vassals  who  confirmed 
the  king's  word,  and  the  Cid  was  at  last  satisfied, 
and  the  knights  also  said,  "Amen."  The  Cid 
would  have  embraced  the  king,  but  he  turned  away, 
and  though  he  had  shown  himself  invincible,  the 
king  banished  him  (1081). 

Then  the  Cid  sent  for  all  his  kinsmen  and 
vassals  and  asked  who  would  follow  him,  and  who 
remain  at  home? 

"We  will  all  go  with  you,"  answers  his  cousin, 
Alvar  Fanez,  "  and  be  your  loyal  friends. " 

"I  thank  you,"  replies  the  Cid.  "The  time 
will  come  when  I  shall  reward  you  tenfold. " 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
The  Oid  Bids  Dofia  Ximena  Farewell 


HEN  the  Cid  returned  to  Burgos, 
men  and  women  went  forth  to 
look  at  him,  others  were  on  the 
roofs  and  at  the  windows  weeping, 
so  great  was  the  sorrow  at  the  manner  of 
his  return.  Every  one  desired  to  welcome  him, 
but  no  one  dared,  for  King  Don  Alfonso  had 
sent  letters  to  say,  "None  should  give  the  Cid 
lodging  or  food,  and  that  whoever  disobeyed 
should  lose  all  he  had,  and  the  eyes  out  of  his 
head." 

The  Cid  went  up  Calle  Alta  to  his  Suelos,  but  he 
found  the  door  fastened  for  fear  of  the  king.  He 
called  out  with  a  loud  voice,  but  no  one  answered. 
Then  he  took  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  and  gave 
it  a  kick,  but  the  lock  stood  firm,  being  well  se- 
cured. The  only  one  who  appeared  was  a  little 
girl  nine  years  old,  who  ran  out  of  one  of  the  houses 
near. 

"O  Cid,  we  dare  not  open  our  doors  to  you, 
for  we  should  lose  all  we  have,  and  the  eyes  in 
our  heads.     This  would  not  help  you,  dear  Cid. 

311 


312  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

But  we  pray  that  God  and  His  angels  may  keep 
you.     Adios. " 

When  the  Cid  understood  what  the  king  had 
done,  he  turned  his  horse  aside  to  St.  Mary's 
chapel  (at  the  gateway),  and  knelt  and  prayed 
with  all  his  heart  at  the  altar,  then  rode  out  of  the 
town  and  pitched  his  tent  on  the  banks  of  the 
Arlanzon. 

At  this  time  occurred  his  dealing  with  the  Jews. 

The  Cid's  purse  was  empty,  and  he  must  fill  it. 
"Take  two  chests,"  he  said  to  his  nephew,  "and 
fill  them  with  sand,  and  go  to  Rachel  and  Vidal 
and  bid  them  come  hither  privately,  because  I 
cannot  take  my  treasure  with  me  on  horseback, 
and  money  I  must  have  before  I  start.  Let  them 
come  for  the  chests  at  night  when  no  one  will  see. 
God  knows  I  do  not  this  willingly,  but  of  necessity, 
and  I  will  redeem  all. " 

Martin  Antolinez  did  as  he  was  told.  To  the 
Jews  he  said,  "  If  you  give  me  your  hands  that  you 
do  not  betray  me  to  Christian  or  Moor,  you  shall 
be  rich  men  for  ever.  The  Campeador  has  great 
wealth  in  tribute.  He  has  two  chests  full  of  gold. 
He  will  leave  them  in  your  hands,  and  you  shall 
lend  him  money  upon  them,  if  you  swear  solemnly 
not  to  open  the  chests  nor  look  at  the  gold. " 

The  confiding  Jews  swore  by  Father  Abraham, 
gave  the  money,  and  received  the  chests.  They 
were  covered  with  leather,  red  and  gold,  the  nails 
gilt,  and  the  sides  ribbed  with  bars  of  iron;  each 
chest  was  fastened  by  a  lock,  and  they  were  very 


THE  CID  BIDS  XIMENA  FAREWELL    313 

heavy,  being  filled  with  sand.  The  Jews  came  to 
the  Cid's  tent  and  kissed  his  hand,  then,  spreading 
a  sheet  on  the  carpet,  they  counted  out  the 
gold,  and  also  gave  a  handsome  present  to  his 
nephew. 

"Let  us  be  gone,"  whispered  Martin  into  the 
Cid's  ear,  not  at  all  ashamed.  So  at  cock-crow 
they  started  to  meet  Dona  Ximena  at  San  Pedro 
de  Cardefia.  (In  the  chapel  of  Santa  Isabel, 
outside  the  Puerta  del  Sarmental  of  the  cathedral, 
is  still  to  be  seen  one  of  these  chests,  called  the 
Cofre  del  Cid,  clamped  with  iron  and  nailed  up 
to  the  wall.) 

At  San  Pedro  the  Cid  found  Ximena  and 
his  two  little  daughters.  "Abbot,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  priest.  "I  commend  my 
two  little  ninas  to  your  care.  Take  care  of  them 
while  I  fight,  and  my  wife  and  her  ladies,  and  when 
the  money  I  now  give  you  is  gone,  supply  them  all 
the  same,  for  every  mark  I  will  hereafter  give  you 
four. "     And  the  abbot  promised. 

Dona  Ximena  and  her  daughters  kissed  the  Cid, 
and  she  knelt  down  at  his  feet  weeping  bitterly. 

The  Cid,  whose  heart  was  tender  for  his  own 
however  hard  with  his  enemies,  wept  too,  and 
took  the  children  in  his  arms,  for  he  dearly  loved 
them. 

"My  dear  and  honoured  wife,"  he  said,  "cheer 
up,  I  shall  yet  live  to  give  these  children  in 
marriage  to  great  lords.  Have  faith  in  me, 
Ximena,  whom  I  love  as  my  own  soul." 


314  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Again  and  again  the  Cid  commended  Ximena 
to  the  abbot,  then  he  and  all  the  knights  loosened 
the  reins  of  their  horses  and  pricking  forward  to 
the  Sierra  entered  into  the  country  of  the  Moors. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

-Adventures  of  tKe  Cid — DeatK  and 
Burial 


ROM  this  time  began  that  life  of 
knight-errantry  which  has  made 
the  Cid  famous  in  all  ages. 

First  he  betook  himself  to  the 
court  of  the  Count  of  Barcelona,  but  not  agreeing 
with  him,  passed  into  the  service  of  the  Sheikh 
Mostadri,  the  most  powerful  of  the  Moslem 
princes  of  Saragossa.  At  his  death,  which  oc- 
curred soon  after,  the  Cid  continued  with  his 
eldest  son,  Montamin,  and  assisted  him  against  his 
two  brothers  with  prodigies  of  valour. 

In  five  days  he  overran  Aragon  and  harried  a 
large  tract  of  country  for  spoil,  returning  in  tri- 
umph to  Saragossa,  bringing  with  him  prisoner  the 
Count  of  Barcelona. 

"Blessed  be  God  and  all  His  saints,"  said  the 
Cid  to  his  followers.  "By  this  victory  we  have 
bettered  our  quarters  for  horses  and  for  men. 
Hear  me,  all  you  knights,"  and  he  raised  his 
mighty  voice,  "we  shall  get  nothing  by  killing 
these  Moors.     Let  us  make  them  show  us  the 

315 


316  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

treasures  they  have  hidden  in  their  houses.  That 
will  serve  us  better  than  their  death. " 

All  this  and  much  more  was  done,  as  the  Cid 
said,  por  murzar.  Enemies  or  friends,  money- 
must  be  had. 

But  the  great  feat  of  the  Cid's  life  is  his  conquest 
of  Valencia,  where  he  was  called  to  protect  the 
Sheikh  Yahia  along  with  the  Moorish  king  of 
Saragossa.  Upon  whatever  cause  he  went  (and 
the  chronicles  are  extremely  confused  after  he 
took  service  with  the  Moslem),  ambition  was  his 
motive  and  pillage  his  object. 

From  Jativa,  on  the  hills  over  the  sea,  he  came 
down  with  his  army  into  the  Huerta,  an  unex- 
ampled garden,  beautiful  in  all  time:  woods  of  palm 
and  orange- trees,  fences  of  aloes  and  prickly  pear, 
the  glory  of  the  Roman,  the  pleasaunce  of  the  Goth, 
the  delight  of  the  Arab,  who  declared  "that  heaven 
had  fallen  here." 

Valencia  itself  lies  sweetly  on  either  side  of  a 
river,  the  banks  breaking  into  bosques  and  gardens, 
with  tall  towers  shooting  into  the  blue  sky.  El 
Miguelete,  square  and  Gothic,  its  rival  Aliberfar, 
all  points,  minarets,  and  domes, — the  Zeca  (bazaar) 
and  Alcazar, — bridge,  twelve  gates,  and  tapia 
battlements,  turreted  and  machicolated,  hemmed 
in  by  fruitful  plains,  the  rich  country  studded 
with  posadas  and  quintas  to  the  sea-shore,  about 
a  mile  distant. 

The  Moorish  Sheikh  Yahia  received  the  Cid 
honourably,   and   gave  him   a   great   revenue   in 


ADVENTbRES  OF  THE  CID  317 

return  for  his  protection.     But  this  did  not  last 
long. 

Seeing  how  powerful  he  was,  King  Alfonso 
suddenly  claimed  all  his  conquests  as  his  suzerain, 
which  led  to  further  strife  between  them,  Alfonso 
attacking  Valencia  in  his  absence  with  the  Moors 
to  gain  it  for  himself;  in  revenge  for  which  act  of 
treason  the  Campeador  carried  his  arms  into  his 
own  land,  Castile,  destroying  castles  and  sacking 
towns.  "Make  war  and  deceive,"  was  his  motto 
now.  He  had  learned  it  from  the  Moors,  and  acted 
up  to  it  till  he  died.  Still  in  his  heart  he  loved  the 
country  where  he  was  born  and  where  he  had  left 
his  wife  and  children,  only  that  he  hated  King 
Alfonso  more. 


On  his  return  the  gates  of  Valencia  were  shut 
against  him,  and  the  terrible  siege  began,  the  Cid 
attacking  the  city  as  cruelly  as  he  could,  and  food 
becoming  dearer  every  day  till  at  last  it  was  not  to 
be  had;  the  people  were  carried  off  in  waves  of 
death,  dropping  and  dying  in  the  streets,  the 
Alcazar  full  of  corpses,  and  no  grave  with  less 
than  ten  bodies  in  it. 

At  last  the  gates  were  opened  to  him  by  his 
friend,  Abeniaf,  the  Adelantado,  in  return  for 
which  he  had  him  first  stoned,  then  burned  alive 
in  the  plaza. 

In  these  days  one  seeks  in  vain  for  the  noble 
qualities  of  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar.     The  only  excuse 


318  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

to  be  found  is  the  harshness  and  injustice  with 
which  Don  Alfonso  treated  him. 

Valencia  surrendered  in  June,  1694,  and  the  Cid 
at  once  bethought  him  of  his  wife  and  children, 
now  grown  up  to  womanhood,  left  in  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Peter,  and  sent  his  nephew  Alvar  Fanez  and 
Martin  Antolinez,  with  two  hundred  knights,  on 
a  mission  to  the  king.  He  also  sent  money  to  re- 
deem the  debt  of  the  chests  filled  with  sand,  and  to 
excuse  himself  to  the  Jews,  Rachel  and  Vidal, 
for  having  cheated  them  in  his  great  need. 

"What  tidings  bring  you  me  of  the  Cid?"  asks 
the  king  (of  Alvar  and  Martin),  whom  they  find 
in  the  city  of  Burgos. 

Then  Alvar  stood  out  and  spake  boldly:  "The 
tidings  are  good,  Sir  King,  but  we  come  to  ask  a 
boon,  for  the  love  of  your  Maker.  You  banished 
the  Cid  from  the  land,  and  behold,  he  has  won 
six  pitched  battles  against  the  Moors,  also  the  city 
of  Valencia;  and  he  places  all  he  has  at  your  feet, 
if  of  your  bounty  he  may  have  his  wife  and  his 
daughters  with  him  there." 

"It  pleases  me  well,"  is  the  king's  answer. 
"  I  will  give  them  a  guard  through  Castile.  When 
they  have  passed  it,  the  Cid  Campeador  will  look 
after  them  himself.  Moreover,  I  grant  him 
Valencia  and  all  that  he  has  won  as  his  own,  to 
be  held  under  me,  who  am  his  liege  lord  and 
suzerain." 

Great  joy  was  there  at  San  Pedro  de  Cardena 
when  the  knights  appeared,  Dona  Ximena  and  her 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  CID  319 

daughters  running  out  on  foot  to  meet  them,  and 
weeping  plenteously  for  joy. 

"And  how  does  my  dear  lord  fare?"  asks  the 
gentle  Dona  Ximena,  wiping  her  eyes.  "In  all 
all  these  years  I  have  had  no  news  of  him. " 

"Well,  and  safe  and  sound,"  answers  Alvar 
Fafiez,  saluting  her.  "Be  of  good  cheer,  my 
cousin,  for  the  great  city  of  Valencia  is  his,  and 
his  heart's  desire  is  to  see  you  and  have  you  with 
him  there." 

"Alas!  what  am  I,"  cries  poor  Ximena,  ever 
humble  in  her  mind,  "that  he  could  show  me  this 
favour  after  so  many  years!  God  and  the  Virgin 
be  thanked  for  his  constancy. " 

When  they  were  within  three  miles  of  Valencia, 
under  the  thick  shade  of  the  orange  woods  of  the 
Huerta,  word  of  their  coming  was  brought  to  the 
Cid,  who  ordered  that  Babieca  should  be  saddled, 
and  girt  on  his  sword. 

He  was  much  changed.  He  had  the  same 
commanding  aspect  and  far-seeing  eyes,  but  his 
white  beard  was  so  long  and  flowing,  it  was  a 
wonder  to  behold.  No  man  ever  put  his  hand  on 
it  in  life  but  himself,  or  touched  it  with  a  razor, 
and  when  he  fought  it  was  screwed  up  like  a  curl 
under  his  chin.  Every  gesture  was  imperious, 
as  of  a  king.  At  that  time,  indeed,  no  king  in 
Spain  could  compare  with  the  Cid  in  power. 

"Dear  and  honoured  wife,"  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  embraces  Dona  Ximena,  who  received  him  on 


320  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

her  knees,  "  and  you,  my  daughters,  come  with  me 
into  Valencia,  the  inheritance  I  have  won  for 
you." 

He  leads  them  through  the  gate  called  "of  the 
Snake, "  then  mounts  into  the  famous  tower  of  the 
Miguelete,  now  the  Campanile  of  the  Cathedral, — 
and  in  the  clear  transparent  air  shows  them  the 
city  which  lies  at  their  feet,  the  green  Huerta, 
thick  with  shade,  and  the  blue  ocean  beyond, 
on  which  ride  the  ships  of  the  King  of  Morocco, 
come  to  besiege  the  city,  a  sight  which  made  poor 
Ximena  tremble. 

But  the  Cid  comforted  her. 

"You  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes  how  I  fight 
and  how  I  gain  our  bread.  Fear  not,  honoured 
wife,"  seeing  that  Ximena' s  courage  fails  her, 
"my  heart  kindles  to  the  fight  because  you  are 
here.     More  Moors,  more  gain ' ' 

The  tambours  of  the  enemy  now  sound  a  great 
alarm,  but  the  Cid  smiles  and  strokes  his  beard, 
gazing  fondly  on  Ximena,  now  a  wrinkled  woman 
in  middle  age. 

"Dear  wife,  look  boldly  out  over  Valencia. 
All  this  I  give  you  for  a  marriage  gift.  I  have  won 
it,  and  I  will  send  the  King  of  Morocco  packing 
whence  he  came.  In  fifteen  days,  please  God, 
his  rattling  tambours  shall  be  hung  up  in  the 
church  of  St.  Mary.  Pray  God  I  may  live  for 
your  sakes,  and  still  overcome  the  Moor!" 

Thus  speaking,  they  descend  the  tower  and  enter 
the  Alcazar,  all  gold  and  painted  walls  on  stone  and 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  CID  321 

wood,  in  the  Arab  manner,  with  hangings  above 
and  below,  purple  and  crimson,  and  rich  cloths 
thick  with  gold  and  silver,  and  take  their  seats  on 
benches  set  with  precious  stones,  the  Cid  placing 
himself  on  an  ivory  divan  like  a  throne. 

About  this  time  King  Alfonso  and  the  Cid  met 
at  last  as  friends  on  the  banks  of  the  Tagus,  a 
river  of  very  rapid  flood,  where  tents  were  pitched 
and  many  knights  assembled. 

The  Cid  knelt  on  the  ground  before  him,  and 
would  have  kissed  his  foot  in  the  jewelled  stirrup, 
but  King  Alfonso  cried  out:  "My  hand,  Cid 
Campeador,  my  hand!"  and  embracing  him  said 
he  forgave  him  with  all  his  heart  (the  Cid  still 
on  his  knees) ,  then  raised  him  up  and  gave  him  the 
kiss  of  peace. 

Afterwards  they  ate  together,  and  Alfonso  pro- 
posed his  kinsmen,  the  two  Infantes  of  Currion,  as 
husbands  to  the  Cid's  two  daughters,  Elvira  and 
Sol.  Very  scornful  and  haughty  young  princes 
they  were,  who  did  not  please  the  Cid  nor  Dona 
Ximena  at  all,  but  the  Cid  dared  not  say  "No," 
on  account  of  the  king. 

The  marriages  indeed  turned  out  ill;  and  the 
dames  were  afterwards  affianced  to  Don  Sancho  of 
Aragon,  and  the  Infante  Ramiro  of  Navarre. 
The  Infantes  of  Currion  were  dismissed  and  dis- 
honoured for  their  crimes,  at  the  Cortes  held  in 
the  palace  of  Burgos,  before  Alfonso,  the  Cid 
sitting  beside  him,  within  the  golden  esirado,  on 


322  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  ivory  divan  he  had  taken  from  the  Moors — a 
throne,  in  fact,  which  had  served  a  sheikh — a 
great  triumph  for  him,  at  Burgos  especially,  his 
native  city,  where  he  had  begged  in  vain  for  bread 
and  was  forced  to  cheat  the  Jews  to  fill  his  purse ! 

The  Cid  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  untouched  by 
the  hand  of  time,  lord  of  a  great  capital  and  of  a 
powerful  state — far-seeing  and  wise,  heroically 
audacious  in  all  he  did,  capable  of  love,  yet  tre- 
mendous in  hate.  "Our  Cid,"  as  the  people 
called  him,  "born  in  a  happy  hour,"  none  dreaming 
of  a  united  kingdom  of  which  he  was  to  be  the  head 
when  he  was  struck  in  the  midst  of  his  career  by 
the  hand  of  death. 

"Be  you  sure,"  he  said  to  his  household  and  his 
companions  in  arm,  whom  he  had  called  together, 
1 '  that  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  life.  In  thirty  days 
I  shall  die.  More  than  once  lately  I  have  seen  my 
father,  Don  Diego  Laynez,  and  the  son  whom  I 
lost.  They  say  to  me  each  time,  'You  have  tarried 
on  earth  too  long,  come  now  with  us,  among  the 
people  who  live  for  ever.' " 

After  this,  having  sickened  of  the  malady  of 
which  he  died,  he  called  for  the  casket  of  gold  in 
which  was  the  balsam  and  the  myrrh  the  Soldan  of 
Persia  had  given  him,  and  he  drank  it,  and,  for 
the  seven  days  which  he  lived,  he  neither  ate  nor 
drank  aught  else,  and  his  body  and  his  coun- 
tenance appeared  fairer  and  fresher  and  his  voice 
clearer,  though  he  waxed  weaker  and  weaker. 

On  the  day  before  he  departed,  he  called  for 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  323 

Dona  Ximena  and  his  nephew  Alvar  Fanez,  and 
directed  them  what  to  do  after  his  death. 

"You  know, "  he  said,  "that  the  King  Bucar,  of 
Morocco,  will  presently  return  to  besiege  the  city; 
therefore,  when  I  am  dead,  make  no  cries  or 
lamentations,  but  wash  my  body  and  dry  it  well, 
and  anoint  it  with  the  myrrh  and  balsam  out  of 
the  gold  casket,  from  head  to  foot ;  then  saddle  you 
my  horse  Babieca,  and  arm  her  as  for  battle, 
apparel  my  body  as  I  went  in  life  against  the 
Moors,  and  set  me  on  her  back,  and  tie  me  fast, 
so  as  not  to  fall,  and  fix  my  good  sword  Tizona 
in  my  hand,  and  when  thus  accoutred  lead  me  out 
against  the  king,  whom  God  has  delivered  into 
my  hands." 

Three  days  after  the  Cid  died  (1099).  On  the 
morning  of  the  twelfth  day,  when  all  was  ready, 
as  the  Cid  had  commanded,  they  went  against  the 
army  of  the  Moor  and  prevailed,  and  the  dead 
body  of  the  Cid  left  Valencia,  on  his  horse  Babieca, 
armed  at  all  points  and  passed  through  the  camp  of 
the  Moors,  followed  by  Dona  Ximena  and  his 
trusty  friends — taking  the  road  for  the  monastery 
of  San  Pedro  de  Cardena,  near  Burgos,  where  he 
was  to  be  interred ;  and  the  king  came  from  Toledo 
to  meet  them. 

When  they  took  the  Cid  from  off  his  horse  and 
set  him  on  a  frame  before  the  altar,  so  fair  and 
comely  did  he  appear,  Dona  Ximena  entreated 
the  king  not  to  have  the  body  laid  in  a  coffin 
underground.     So  king  Alfonso  sent  to  Burgos  for 


324  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

the  ivory  divan  on  which  the  Cid  had  sat  as  king 
at  the  Cortes,  and  gave  orders  that  he  should  be 
placed  in  it,  to  the  right  of  the  altar,  and  a  graven 
tabernacle  placed  over  him,  bearing  the  blazon 
of  Castile  and  Leon,  Navarre,  and  Aragon,  and  his 
own  arms  as  the  Cid  Ruy  Diaz  the  Campeador. 
There  it  was  left  for  ten  years,  and  when  the 
garments  waxed  old  others  were  put  on. 

In  a  side  capella  of  the  church  of  San  Pedro, 
five  miles  from  Burgos,  the  square  monument  of 
the  Cid  is  still  to  be  seen.  It  is  much  mutilated, 
but  his  lofty  figure  can  still  be  traced  on  the  lid, 
wearing  a  coat  of  mail  and  grasping  his  double- 
hilted  sword  Tizona,  the  effigy  of  the  faithful 
Ximena  at  his  side. 

Legend  says  that  while  the  body  was  left  alone 
in  the  church  before  being  interred,  it  was  visited 
by  a  Jew,  who,  wagging  his  head,  contemptuously 
contemplated  the  face  of  the  dead  hero  and  his 
sacred  beard,  of  which  the  Cid  had  said,  "Thanks 
be  to  God,  it  is  long  because  I  keep  it  for  my 
pleasure,  and  never  a  son  of  Moor  or  Jew  has 
dared  to  touch  it." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Jew  to  himself,  recalling  all 
the  cruelties  of  which  he  had  been  guilty  towards 
his  race,  "you  are  the  great  Cid,  low  enough  now, 
and  that  is  your  fine  black  beard,  grey  and  thin, 
of  which  you  were  so  proud.  I  should  like  to  see 
what  you  will  do  to  me  if  I  pluck  it. "  At  which 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand,  but  drew  it  back 
sharp  enough  when,   with  a  hollow  sound,   the 


DEATH  AND  BURIAL  325 

dead  hand  seized  the  hilt  of  Tizona  and  drew 
forth  the  blade  more  than  half  a  palm.  Down 
fell  the  Jew  in  a  fit,  and  in  rushed  the  priests,  and 
lo!  the  dead  hand  still  grasped  Tizona,  and  the 
fierce  eyes  seemed  to  roll.  Who,  after  such  an 
experience,  would  dare  to  trifle  with  the  remains 
of  the  Cid? 

At  the  present  time  these  remains  are  said  to  be 
deposited  at  the  Ayuntamiento  at  Burgos,  in  a  case 
of  walnut  wood,  in  the  centre  of  a  large  hall,  along 
with  the  skeleton  of  poor  Ximena,  still  faithful  to 
him  in  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXTV 

Fernando  el  Santo 

|FTER  the  death  of  Alfonso  el  Vali- 
ente,  which  followed  close  upon 
that  of  the  Cid,  our  Old  Court 
Life  brings  us  to  the  reign  of 
Fernando  el  Santo,  third  of  that  name — 12 17 — 
brother  of  that  well-beloved  Eleanor,  Queen  of 
Edward  the  First,  destined  to  conquer  Seville 
after  five  hundred  years  of  Moslem  rule,  the  first 
Christian  king  who  inhabited  the  Alcazar. 

With  Fernando  the  shadow  of  a  great  king  rises 
before  us.  He  wears  a  high  pointed  crown  sur- 
rounded by  a  glory,  his  face  is  set  and  stern,  with 
the  prominent  far-seeing  eyes  of  a  prophet,  his 
features  aquiline  and  pure ;  his  hair  fair  and  curly, 
thrown  back  as  if  in  an  ecstasy,  and  a  full  beard 
covers  his  closely  shut  mouth  and  finely  modelled 
chin.  It  is  an  essentially  modern  countenance  for 
the  time  in  which  he  lived,  full  of  life  and  ex- 
pression, only  the  stiff  ruff  round  the  long  neck 
is  old  Castilian,  and  the  heavy  armour  in  which  the 
tall,  stalwart  body  is  encased  very  different  from 
the  elegance  in  wrought  steel  and  gold  which  was 
manufactured  by  the  Moors. 

326 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  327 

Around  him  hang  the  ample  folds  of  a  royal 
mantle,  a  deep  ermine  collar  descending  to  his 
waist.  In  one  hand  he  carries  a  drawn  sword,  in 
the  other  the  globe  of  empire  and  the  keys  of 
Seville. 

Thus  he  is  to  be  seen  in  a  statue  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Seville,  and  in  a  curious  painting  by  Murillo  in 
the  Library,  the  reproduction  of  some  earlier  like- 
ness. 

When  not  bearing  arms  against  the  Moors  he 
occupied  himself  in  burning  them,  for  in  religious 
zeal  he  was  the  precursor  of  Torquemada,  the 
parent  of  the  Inquisition.  Indeed  the  malicious 
chroniclers  insist  that  he  was  "sainted"  for  carry- 
ing fagots  to  the  stake  with  his  own  hands. 

Not  an  attractive  monarch,  though  cousin  to 
St.  Louis  of  France,  whom  he  somewhat  resembles 
in  person,  and  his  emulator  in  crusades  against  the 
heathen.  With  this  difference:  no  crime  was  ever 
imputed  to  the  French  king,  who  died  tending 
plague-stricken  Africans,  while  the  record  of  much 
cruelty  attaches  to  the  memory  of  Fernando. 

Not  to  be  too  severe  on  him,  however,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  from  his  time  the  Castilian 
Spaniards  assumed  the  grave  and  dignified  de- 
meanour that  characterises  them  to  this  day,  and 
marks  them  as  a  race  at  once  loyal,  valiant  and 
sincere. 

Fernando  first  conquered  Cordoba,  occupied  the 
palace  of  the  great  Abdurraman,  and  actually 
endeavoured  to  turn  the  inimitable  mosque  into  a 


328  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

church.  Happily  the  Moorish  architecture  was 
too  much  for  him ;  a  mezquita  it  is,  and  mezquita  it 
will  remain,  as  long  as  horseshoe  arch  and  pillar 
hold  together. 

Cordoba  conquered,  Fernando  turned  his  victor- 
ious arms  against  the  capital  of  Andalusia,  for  call 
it  as  you  please,  Boetica  or  Italica,  Seville  was 
and  ever  will  be  the  chief  city  of  the  south — still 
encircled  by  portions  of  the  Roman  walls,  un- 
touched since  the  days  of  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

There  were  seven  suburbs  and  as  many  gates, 
and  1 66  castellated  towers.  Azataff  was  the 
Moorish  caliph  who  held  it,  as  brave  a  knight  and 
chivalric  a  prince  as  ever  drew  blade. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Guadalquivir,  by  the 
white  shores  of  Cadiz,  he  held  his  fleet,  and  his 
vassals  and  troops  were  with  him  in  the  Alcazar. 
From  the  Patio  de  las  Banderas  floated  his  flag, 
a  black  crescent  and  a  star  on  a  yellow  ground, 
and  his  turbaned  body-guard  thronged  the  walls. 

Fernando  fixed  his  camp  on  the  low  hills  over 
Sancti  Ponce.  In  such  a  world  of  flats  as  sur- 
round Seville  any  height  is  valuable,  and  he  seized 
it.  As  the  eye  ranges  afar,  these  olive-planted 
hills  appear  paltry  and  monotonous,  but  they 
command  the  city.  At  their  base  winds  the 
Guadalquivir  in  many  a  graceful  bend,  otherwise 
the  land  is  unprotected  to  the  sea. 

Not  only  did  Fernando  fix  his  camp  scientifi- 
cally, but  he  was  expert  enough  to  understand  that 
to  succeed  he  must  block  the  river.     A  fleet  of 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  329 

Castilian  boats  intercepted  the  Moorish  vessels  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Guadalquivir  at  Cadiz,  and 
stopped  all  supplies. 

Such  were  the  dispositions  of  the  Castilian 
king;  and  as  the  siege  drew  on,  and  the  Christian 
host  gazed  down  upon  the  walls,  great  encourage- 
ment came  to  them  from  the  visible  interposition 
of  the  Virgin  in  many  notable  visions  and  miracles. 

One  day  as  Don  Fernando  stands  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  royal  tent,  casting  those  prominent 
eyes  of  his  across  the  plains,  and  counting  by  the 
number  of  outposts  in  how  many  days  he  may 
hope  to  plant  the  flag  of  Castile  upon  the  Giralda 
tower,  rising  so  tall  and  graceful  before  him,  he 
beholds  a  Christian  knight  with  a  companion  and 
an  esquire  riding  by  the  bank  of  the  river  below, 
carelessly  as  a  man  who  takes  the  air  on  a  fine 
summer's  day,  and  loiters  on  the  way  the  better 
to  enjoy  it.  Lightly  the  knight  carries  his  lance 
in  rest  upon  his  thigh.  His  vizor  is  raised  over  a 
bright  young  face.  At  his  side  hangs  his  sword, 
held  by  a  golden  chain;  on  his  arm  flutters  a  scarf 
striped  red  and  blue,  and  the  same  colours  shine 
radiant  in  the  sunshine  on  the  plume  which  nods 
from  his  helmet. 

"Now,  who  is  this  young  fool,"  cries  Fernando 
in  a  rage,  "who  dares  ride  forth  into  the  enemy's 
camp  as  if  he  were  the  herald  of  a  tournament? 
Does  he  think  that  I  allow  my  knights  thus  to 
sacrifice  their  lives?  or  that  he  has  a  right  to  risk 


330  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

it?"  Then,  as  he  watches  his  progress,  always 
farther  and  farther  into  the  outworks  of  the  Moor, 
"Who  is  he?"  he  cries  again.  "Will  no  one  tell 
me  his  name?  Methinks  it  were  well  for  him  he 
had  shriven  himself  before  he  started,  or  his  soul 
will  be  the  worse  for  it  very  briefly. " 

Before  the  king  could  be  answered,  a  loud 
voice  shouted  at  his  ear:  "Ride,  ride  for  your  life, 
Garcia  Perez  of  Varga.  I  see  the  gleam  of  Moorish 
lances  near  at  hand.     Ride  on,  or  you  are  lost. " 

The  voice  that  shouted  was  that  of  the  Conde 
Lorenzo,  the  king's  Jefe,  who,  coming  up  behind 
the  king  at  that  moment,  and  having  longer  sight 
than  his,  recognised  Don  Garcia's  cognisance,  a 
red  cross  and  a  green  tree,  and  called  out  to  warn 
him  of  his  danger. 

"Sire,"  says  he,  in  a  lower  tone,  bowing  before 
Fernando,  "pardon  me,  I  see  seven  Moors  on 
horseback.  They  are  in  ambuscade  in  that  wood 
yonder.  They  have  sighted  Don  Garcia,  and  are 
waiting  to  break  out  upon  him  as  he  passes. 
Therefore  I  warned  him." 

"Don  Garcia  Perez  is  it?"  quoth  the  king,  his 
eyes  following  those  of  Count  Lorenzo  upon  the 
plain.  "  I  could  lose  no  better  man.  For  die  he 
will,  as  surely  as  Christ  suffered  on  the  cross. 
Blow  for  blow  he  will  give  them,  but  seven  to 
one  is  too  great  odds." 

As  to  Don  Garcia,  he  is  too  far  off  to  hear 
any  voice,  let  them  shout  ever  so  loudly.  On  he 
rides  tranquilly,  as  a  lover  to  his  mistress;  but  as 


Photo  Levy  et  Fils. 
A   VIEW    OF    THE    INTERIOR    OF   THE    CATHKDRAL   AT    BURGOS. 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  331 

if  some  instinct  suddenly  struck  him,  at  the  same 
moment  that  the  Conde  Lorenzo  calls  out  to  him 
from  the  hill,  he  lowers  the  vizor  of  his  helmet, 
crested  by  the  wing  of  a  black  eagle,  grasps  the 
hilt  of  his  lance  firmly  in  his  hand,  and  turning 
back  to  his  companion,  by  no  means  so  well  armed 
as  himself,  and  secretly  recommending  himself 
to  every  saint  in  the  calendar,  "The  Moors  are 
sure  to  be  on  us,"  he  says,  "it  were  well  to  make 
ready  for  them.  Buckle  your  girths  tightly  and 
take  care  they  do  not  shake  you  from  the  saddle.  " 

Instead  of  answering,  Don  Juan  Attiz  (for 
that  was  his  name)  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  riding 
furiously  towards  the  back  camp,  leaving  Don 
Garcia  alone  with  his  esquire. 

"Ha!  ha!  is  it  so?"  laughs  he,  watching  his 
companion  as  his  horse's  hoofs  tear  up  the  turf. 
"Better  to  be  alone  with  me,  Baldo"  (to  his 
esquire),  "than  to  have  such  a  coward  at  my 
heels.     Hey!  for  Castile  and  Leon!" 

Now  softly,  one  by  one,  the  Moors  come  creep- 
ing out  from  their  ambush  in  the  wood  (there  is 
no  mistaking  them  now,  the  sun  shone  upon  their 
round  steel  caps  and  their  smooth  shields) ,  one  by 
one,  like  Agag,  "delicately,"  until  seven  Moslem 
knights  place  themselves  across  the  path  by  which 
Don  Garcia  rides,  the  last  one  carrying  a  flag 
bearing  the  mystic  symbol  of  an  open  hand,  the 
same  as  is  still  to  be  seen  carved  over  the  principal 
gateway  of  the  Alhambra. 

"By  Santiago!"  cries  King  Fernando,  anxiously 


332  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

watching  from  the  hill.  "Observe  Don  Garcia. 
The  seven  Moors  are  ranging  themselves  on  the 
grass.  Yet,  to  look  at  them,  one  would  say  it  is 
they  who  are  afraid,  not  he,  he  rides  on  so  boldly. " 

"And  so  it  is,  sire,"  answers  the  chamberlain, 
his  eye  fixed  on  the  plain;  "I  warrant  their  hearts 
beat  louder  than  his.  The  Moors  stand  back  in 
line,  while  Garcia  advances.  See,  now  he  pauses, 
as  though  he  did  not  see  them — pauses  and  speaks 
to  his  esquire.  My  lord,  you  will  soon  sing  a  Te 
Deum  in  the  Seville  mosque,  if  all  your  army  be  as 
brave  as  Don  Garcia. " 

"Did  ever  man  behold  the  like?"  replies  King 
Fernando,  shading  his  eyes  the  better  to  observe 
him.  "Now  Garcia  is  taking  off  his  casque.  He 
is  wiping  his  head.  He  is  calling  his  esquire  up 
beside  him.  God  be  thanked  we  have  such 
Christian  knights !  May  the  Blessed  Virgin  guard 
him,  and  bring  him  safe  back." 

"Come  hither,"  Don  Garcia  is  saying  to  his 
esquire,  taking  no  more  notice  of  the  seven  Moors 
than  if  they  were  seven  statues;  while  they,  in  their 
turn,  mark  with  dismay  the  red  cross  and  the  green 
tree  emblazoned  on  his  shield.  Too  well  they  know 
that  device,  and  when  they  see  whom  they  have 
waylaid  they  wish  themselves  elsewhere. 

"Come  hither,  the  sun  is  hot  upon  my  head. 
Take  my  casque  from  me  and  hold  it  for  awhile; 
there  is  no  need  why  I  should  heat  myself  with 
such  a  weight. " 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  333 

As  he  speaks,  he  lifts  his  arm  to  remove  his 
casque,  and  behold,  his  striped  scarf  has  vanished. 
"Alas!  how  have  I  lost  it?"  he  cries  in  much 
distress.  "  I  must  have  dropped  it  but  a  moment 
ago.  Now,  I  would  rather  fight  ten  battles  than 
lose  that  scarf.  My  liege  lady  worked  it  for  me 
and  bound  it  on  my  arm  long  ago,  and  there  I  have 
worn  it  ever  since.  Find  it  I  will,  or  I  will  die  for 
it." 

As  he  speaks  Don  Garcia  turns  himself  round  in 
his  saddle  unhelmeted  as  he  is,  his  hair  flying 
in  the  breeze,  and  gazes  eagerly  upon  the  path  by 
which  he  has  come,  a  track  upon  the  greensward. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  raises  his  eyes  upon 
the  Moors,  seven  knights  ranged  in  a  line,  wearing 
green  turbans  on  their  helmets  and  carrying  lances 
in  their  hands;  and  there,  suspended  upon  the 
point  of  a  spear,  is  his  scarf  striped  white  and  red— 
a  Moslem  has  picked  it  up  and  looped  it  there. 

"Now,  by  my  faith!"  says  Garcia,  considering 
them  with  a  frown,  "these  are  uncourteous 
enemies.  Folks  say  the  unbelievers  exceed  us  in 
that  quality,  but  it  is  not  so.  They  have  come 
out  to  steal,  these  Moslem  dogs.  They  shall  pay 
for  it.  No  Moor  that  ever  lived  shall  ride  back 
into  Seville  and  call  that  scarf  his  own !  Come  on, 
ye  thieves  and  robbers!  give  me  my  lady's  token ! " 

As  he  speaks,  Don  Garcia  falls  upon  them  and 
hacks  and  hews  them  with  such  deadly  blows  right 
and  left,  that  ere  much  time  is  passed  such  as  are 
not  dead  are  scouring  the  plain  to  Seville. 


334  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

Fernando,  watching  anxiously  from  the  hill, 
still  sees  Don  Garcia  on  the  plain.  Again  he  is 
alone,  now  he  is  fastening  the  scarf,  which  his 
esquire  has  unloosed  from  the  Moorish  spear, 
securely  upon  his  arm.  Then,  humming  a  rounde- 
lay, he  girds  his  sword,  streaming  with  blood,  upon 
his  thigh,  and  turning  his  horse's  head  towards  the 
Christian  camp,  rides  gaily  up  the  hill,  four  green- 
turbaned   heads   dangling   from   his    saddle-bow. 

Meanwhile  the  jefe  is  telling  the  king  a  pleasant 
tale  of  Don  Garcia's  brother,  Don  Diego  de  Varga, 
who,  having  snapped  his  sword  in  the  heat  of  an 
engagement  outside  Xerez,  tore  up  by  the  roots 
a  wild  olive-tree,  and  laid  about  him  with  such 
fury  among  the  Moors,  that  to  this  day  he  is  known 
by  the  name  of  El  Machuca  (the  Pounder). 

For  sixteen  months  the  Caliph  Azataff  gallantly 
defended  the  walls  of  Seville,  but  before  an  army 
of  such  chivalric  knights  and  a  king  prepared  for 
canonisation,  what  city  could  hope  to  stand? 

On  the  23d  November  (el  dia  de  San  Clemente) 
the  strong  fortress  of  the  Alcazar  is  stormed  and 
Azataff  capitulates.  Then,  amid  an  inaudible 
blare  of  trumpets  and  fifes,  ringing  of  bells  and 
beating  of  drums,  King  Fernando,  in  a  suit  of  fine 
steel  armour,  a  royal  crown  of  wrought  gold 
encircling  his  casque,  and  mounted  on  a  graceful 
Andalusian  charger  caparisoned  with  silver  hous- 
ings, enters  the  gate  nearest  to  the  river  on  the 
north,    from   henceforth   to   be    known    as    "La 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  335 

Puerta  del  Trionfo. "  By  his  side  rides  Don 
Garcia  de  Varga  and  his  brother  Don  Diego 
(whom  it  is  said  the  immortal  Don  Quixote  de  la 
Mancha  chose  as  his  model  for  tearing  up  the 
wild  oak-tree,  and  which  act  of  valour  he  proposed 
to  perform  equally),  the  Conde  Lorenzo,  the  Lord 
of  Haro,  Pelayo  Correa,  the  Master  of  Santiago, 
and  many  other  champions  of  the  times. 

Over  Fernando's  head  waves  the  banner  of 
Castile,  the  Golden  Castle,  and  the  Lion  of  Leon, 
his  hand  resting  upon  the  hilt  of  that  same  iron 
sword,  still  to  be  seen  in  the  sacristy  at  Seville, 
and  fixed  on  his  saddle-bow  is  a  small  ivory  statue 
of  the  Virgen  de  los  Reyes,  which  accompanies  him 
everywhere. 

The  procession  is  superb.  First,  men-at-arms 
bearing  the  escutcheons  of  the  twin  kingdoms 
he  rules  and  the  black  standards  and  flags  cap- 
tured from  the  Moors,  a  long  string  of  swarthy 
prisoners  following  bare-headed — the  greatest 
humiliation  an  Arab  can  endure;  other  banners 
floating  in  the  sun,  heralds  in  golden  tabards 
proclaiming  with  a  loud  voice  the  feats  of  arms 
accomplished  during  the  siege;  bowmen,  pur- 
suivants, knights  and  esquires  in  squadrons  behind, 
with  gleaming  spears  and  glistening  targets, 
mounted  on  proudly  prancing  war-horses,  a  sheet 
of  mail. 

As  Fernando  passes  the  drawbridge,  marked 
now  by  a  sensible  depression  in  the  road  (for  the 
Puerta  del  Trionfo  disappeared  in  the  last  revolu- 


336  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

tion,  and  the  fosse  is  filled  up),  a  cup  of  rock- 
crystal  is  presented  to  him  under-  an  "Arab  arch 
by  the  Christian  citizens,  filled  to  the  brim  with 
golden  Xerez  wine.  This  he  quaffs  to  the  health 
of  his  victorious  army,  turning  himself  around  in 
his  saddle-bow  so  that  all  may  see. 

"Castile!  Castile!  Leon  to  the  rescue!  Viva  el 
Rey  Fernando!  Viva  el  Cristo  Deo!"  come 
ringing  through  the  air  from  every  Christian 
throat  of  mailed  warriors  and  tried  men-at-arms. 
Their  arms  and  hands  are  weary  from  the  toil,  but 
their  hearts  make  merry  at  the  pageant  and  the 
booty  in  store  for  all. 

Then  two  men,  a  Jew  and  a  Moor,  advance  from 
the  crowd,  one  an  aged  Rabbi,  with  a  long  white 
beard,  habited  in  a  Hebrew  gabardine  reaching  to 
the  ground,  the  other  a  young  Arab  of  stately  pre- 
sence, fully  equipped  for  battle,  the  nephew  of 
Caliph  Azataff,  but  without  casque  or  scimitar — 
both  bearing  offerings  to  the  King.  The  Jewish 
gift  is  an  iron  key,  bearing  on  the  wards  the  words 
in  Hebrew:  "The  King  of  kings  shall  open;  the 
King  of  all  the  earth  shall  enter."  The  Moor 
also  bears  a  key,  but  it  is  of  silver,  inscribed  in 
Arabic  characters  with  the  motto:  "May  Allah 
render  the  dominion  of  Islam  eternal;"  and  as 
the  young  knight  offers  it  to  Fernando,  kneeling  in 
the  dust  beside  his  stirrup,  he  raises  his  other  hand 
to  put  back  the  bitter  tears  that  blind  his  eyes. 

At  the  moment  King  Fernando  entered  Seville, 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  337 

the  caliph  fled  by  the  side  where  is  now  the  Hospital 
del  Sangre,  near  to  the  Convent  of  San  Jeronima 
in  the  fields,  on  the  spot  where  the  lepers  had  their 
ancient  refuge. 

Whither  the  caliph  went  no  one  knew,  or  if  he 
died  by  his  own  hand  or  that  of  another,  Fernando 
little  heeding  his  fate  as  he  passed  into  the 
city  to  take  possession  of  the  castle  of  the 
Alcazar. 

And  there  he  lived  till  he  died,  and  was  buried 
in  the  Capilla  Real  of  the  great  mosque  he  turned 
into  a  cathedral. 

Over  the  altar,  placed  on  a  silver  throne  em- 
bossed with  the  double  knout  of  Castile  and  Leon, 
sits  the  little  ivory  image  of  the  Virgen  de  los  Reyes, 
given  him  by  St.  Louis — the  same  mediaeval 
figure,  with  a  glistening  gown,  hair  spun  in  gold, 
and  shoes  worked  with  Gallic  lillies  and  the  word 
Amor,  he  always  carried  on  his  saddle-bow  in 
battle. 

The  Capilla  Real  is  a  church  within  a  church, 
entered  by  golden  gates  behind  the  altar,  where, 
under  a  richly  incrusted  dome,  in  a  shell-shaped 
vault,  lies  Saint  Fernando  in  a  crystal  coffin. 
The  body  is  wonderfully  preserved.  On  his  head 
is  the  pointed  crown  he  wore  in  life,  and  his  royal 
mantle  is  wrapped  about  his  loins.  On  one  side 
lies  the  sword  with  which  he  fought  his  way  into 
Toledo  and  Seville,  on  the  other  the  baton  of 
command.  Beside  him  rest  his  son,  Alonso  the 
Wise,  and  his  Queen  Beatrice,  and  on  a  wall  near 

YOL.  I — 22 


338  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

at  hand  are  the  medallions  of  the  chivalric  brothers 
Don  Garcia  and  Don  Diego  de  Varga. 

The  hour  to  enter  the  cathedral  is  at  the  Ave 
Maria,  when  the  sun  is  low  and  its  rays  tremble  on 
the  burnished  walls  in  irises  of  gold,  and  the  great 
painted  windows  stand  out  in  a  pale  light,  alive 
with  venerable  forms  of  law-givers,  prophets,  and 
kings;  the  delicate  curves  of  the  arches  melt  into 
dim  lines,  and  rays  of  yellow  light  pierce  like  arrows 
across  the  floor. 

Then  the  sculptured  saints  seem  to  take  form 
and  live,  the  flying  pipes  of  the  twin  organs  to 
glitter  like  angels'  wings,  the  statues  in  the  choir 
to  murmur  in  strange  tongues,  the  many  famous 
pictures  which  line  the  walls  to  grow  terrible  in 
the  half-light,  with  dark  forms  of  archbishops 
and  priests,  monks  and  canons  long  laid  to  rest 
in  the  repose  of  painted  shrines,  beside  which 
deacons  keep  watch  with  silver  croziers;  and  from 
the  boundless  gloom  a  burst  of  sound  rolls  forth 
like  the  thunder  of  an  earthquake  from  the  deep- 
mouthed  pipes  of  the  two  organs,  replying  to  each 
other  as  in  a  voice  of  Titans — the  rattle  of  con- 
quering drums,  the  shrill  bray  of  trumpets,  the 
crying  voice  of  pipes,  and  all  the  clash  and  clamour 
as  of  a  battle-field. 

On  the  anniversary  of  St.  Fernando's  death  the 
troops  still  march  in  to  hear  the  military  mass 
and  to  lower  the  standard  of  Spain  before  his 
body,  each  soldier  bearing  a  lighted  torch.     Once 


FERNANDO  EL  SANTO  339 

it  was  a  company  of  a  hundred  Moors,  bareheaded, 
who  carried  the  torches  to  the  royal  bier,  sent  in 
token  of  submission  by  the  Caliph  of  Granada. 
Could  any  conqueror  wish  for  more? 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


Don  Pedro 


ife  .xj  tx,  ,yj  '«.  ,vj 


^  ^x'  ■* 


H!  the  beautiful  south  it  is  at  Se- 
ville! Nothing  can  shut  it  out! 
With  its  glamour  of  all  strange 
things  in  nature,  story,  and  song; 
Moslem  and  Christian  knights  and  lovely  sul- 
tanas hung  with  priceless  pearls,  dead  caliphs 
haunting  blood-stained  towers,  shades  of  Christian 
conquerors  and  swarthy  slaves,  the  curse  of  a 
murderous  past,  the  glitter  of  a  glorious  present, 
the  clash,  the  confusion,  Arab  palaces,  marble- 
paved,  heavy  with  far-off  tales,  and  gates,  walls, 
and  castles  of  nations  long  died  out,  yet  with  a 
poetic  life  still  speaking ! 

The  narrow  streets,  across  which  lovers  still 
whisper  to  each  other  under  the  moon,  the  un- 
shuttered windows,  iron-bound,  where  Inez  may 
creep  down  and  warble  to  Alonso,  concealed  in  a 
dark  mantle  behind  the  shadow  of  a  wall,  where 
roses  fling  curtains  of  perfumed  blossom,  orange 
petals  scent  the  air,  and  southern  sunsets  spread 
sudden  splendours  in  the  afterglow,  as  the  earth 
lies  black  under  a  sky  palpitating  like  a  furnace, 

340 


DON  PEDRO  341 


till  night  falls  and  countless  stars  come  forth  to 
light  a  paler  day ! 

Two  things  are  most  notable  at  Seville ;  the  great 
mosque,  now  the  cathedral,  and  the  Alcazar.  The 
Alcazar,  inhabited  by  long  generations  of  Arab 
caliphs  up  to  the  time  of  St.  Fernando,  is  still 
untouched,  a  Moorish  fortress  in  the  centre  of 
the  city,  girt  by  tapia  walls  and  castellated  towers. 
Not  a  poetic  ruin  like  the  Alhambra,  but  a  real 
substantial  castle,  reached  through  the  Plaza  del 
Trionfo  by  which  Fernando  passed. 

It  was  again  rebuilt  and  redecorated  by  Don 
Pedro  el  Cruel,  1350,  King  of  Castile  and  Leon, 
at  the  same  period  as  the  Alhambra,  Yussuf, 
Caliph  of  Granada,  being  on  such  friendly  terms 
with  Don  Pedro  that  the  same  Moorish  architect 
wrought  for  both. 

Passing  an  outer  barbican  with  two  low  towers 
the  Patio  de  las  Banderas,  where  floats  the  flag 
of  Spain,  a  dark  corridor  leads  to  the  inner  Patio 
de  la  Monteria,  where  the  portal  of  Don  Pedro 
blazes  in  the  sun,  a  glittering  blending  of  red, 
blue,  and  gold,  set  on  snowy  surfaces  of  finest 
fretwork;  painted  roofs  casting  rich  shadows, 
arabesques  formed  into  Cunc  letters,  diapered 
borders  parting  into  groups  of  horseshoe  arches, 
and  a  Gothic  inscription  setting  forth  "that  the 
most  high  and  powerful  Don  Pedro,  by  the  Grace 
of  God  King  of  Castile  and  Leon,  ordered  these 
castles  and  fortresses  to  be  re-erected."  The 
magic  of  it  all  is  wonderful,  coming  into  sight  as 


342  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 


it  does,  rising  tier  above  tier,  parapet  on  parapet, 
in  a  glow  of  Oriental  colour,  to  a  central  dome 
cutting  against  the  azure  sky;  the  door  a  curious 
mosaic  of  dark  wood,  and  on  either  side  low  marble 
benches,  sunk  into  the  arcaded  carvings  of  the 
wall,  where  the  young  King  Don  Pedro  sat  to 
administer  justice  to  all  who  came,  while  his 
dark-haired  mistress,  Maria  de  Padilla,  watched 
from  above,  leaning  out  of  the  central  mirador 
(window)  of  her  chamber,  still  used  as  a  retiring 
room  for  the  queens  of  Spain. 

One  morning  Don  Pedro,  taking  his  place  as 
usual,  surrounded  by  his  alguazils,  commanded 
that  certain  men  should  be  brought  before  him 
whose  arrest  he  had  ordered  as  they  were  drifting 
down  the  Guadalquivir  with  the  tide  to  Cadiz  upon 
a  wooden  raft.  His  knitted  brows  and  sinister 
aspect  boded  ill  to  the  rough-looking  countrymen 
brought  trembling  into  the  court. 

"How  comes  it,  fellows,"  asks  the  king,  his 
steely-blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  foremost  man,  "that 
you  dare  to  come  to  Seville  to  cheat  me  of  the  dues 
on  the  timber  that  floats  down  the  stream? 
Think  you  you  will  escape  unpunished?" 

"O  King,"  one  of  the  men  answers,  falling 
on  his  knees,  "in  what  have  we  offended?  We 
are  four  poor  men  from  Puerta  Santa  Maria,  in- 
capable of  deceiving  any  one — much  less  your 
royal  Grace." 

"Liar!"  roars  the  young  king,  starting  from 


THE    BURGOS    CATHEDRAL. 


DON  PEDRO  343 


his  seat.     "  Look  at  me.     Do  you  not  know  me?  " 

"No,  my  lord,  I  have  never  to  my  knowledge 
set  eyes  on  you  before." 

"You  did  not  meet  me  last  night  upon  the 
quay?" 

"  No,  my  liege. " 

"Come  now,"  and  a  cynical  smile  spreads  over 
his  fair  young  face,  "remember!  Did  not  a 
stranger  help  you  to  unload  a  raft?  A  fellow  you 
found  sleeping  under  a  boat  wrapped  in  a  cloak? 
Did  you  not  wake  him  and  promise  to  pay  him 
well,  if  he  would  aid  you  to  land  certain  timber 
so  that  you  might  start  before  sunrise?" 

"O  King,  it  is  true;  we  spoke  with  such  a 
fellow — mean,  almost  in  rags — and  he  did  help 
us  after  sunset  to  land  some  wood.  We  paid  him 
and  let  him  go,  and  the  king's  dues  on  it  were 
lodged  at  the  Torre  d'Oro  before  we  left." 

"Villains!"  cries  the  king,  his  features  darken- 
ing. "A  pretty  example!  This  is  how  my  sub- 
jects rob  and  cheat  and  lie.  I  should  like  to  cut 
off  your  heads  with  my  own  hand.  Know  you 
that  I  was  that  fellow  who  helped  you,  'that  mean 
person  in  rags.1  Did  you  not  say  the  night  was 
dark,  and  that  no  man  would  see  you  land  the 
timber  and  you  would  escape  the  dues?  And 
did  you  not  add  that  those  dues  were  wrung  un- 
justly from  poor  men?  and  that  the  king  who  slept 
in  the  golden  chambers  would  be  none  the  worse 
if  he  lost  them?  And  did  I  not  tell  you  that  my 
name  was  Pedro — Pedro?"     Here  the  cruel  boy 


344  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

broke  into  a  mocking  laugh,  more  terrible  than 
threats.  "Now  I  am  that  Pedro,  King  of  Castile 
and  Leon  and  Caliph  of  Cordoba  and  Seville!" 

Then  turning  to  the  mutes,  who  stood  with 
drawn  swords  behind:  "Cut  off  the  heads  of  these 
carrion  and  set  them  on  the  wharf,  that  all  men 
may  know  me  as  I  am,  El  Rey  Jusiiciero. " 

Looking  at  Don  Pedro,  son  of  Alonso  XI. — 
13 12 — (who  was  cruel  also  and  made  away  with 
his  enemies  remorselessly) — he  is  not  such  a  re- 
mote personage  after  all.  He  was  contemporary 
with  the  Black  Prince,  son  of  Eleanor  of  Castile, 
daughter  of  Alfonso  el  Sabio,  and  four  short 
reigns  bring  him  almost  into  modern  times  with 
Fernando  and  Isabel,  the  parents  of  Caterina  of 
Aragon,  wife  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  times  were  stirring  when  he  came  to  the 
throne.  The  Crusades  were  not  over,  and  the 
world  was  moved  by  wars,  murders,  and  pestilence. 

Young  as  he  was,  under  twenty  when  he  suc- 
ceeded his  father,  Don  Pedro  fixed  the  attention 
of  Europe;  the  most  prominent  figure  in  Spain 
since  the  time  of  San  Fernando,  and  as  fantastic, 
brave,  handsome,  and  unscrupulous  as  a  Castilian 
prince  should  be. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  during  his  short 
reign  he  civilised  the  south  of  Spain  by  a  close 
alliance  with  the  cultivated  Moors  of  Granada; 
that  he  loved  the  arts  and  industries  in  which  they 
excelled,  and  during  his  brief  periods  of  leisure 


DON  PEDRO  345 


from  incessant  wars,  surrounded  himself  with  all 
that  was  illustrious  in  the  Mussulman  race — still 
the  mediasval  depositors  of  knowledge  in  Spain, 
as  the  monks  were  in  Central  Europe.  As  long 
as  he  lived  he  never  abandoned  these  artistic 
tastes,  and  has  left  in  the  Alcazar  a  monument  of 
exquisite  architecture,  which  sends  down  his 
name  to  posterity  with  honour 

In  a  small  plaza  not  far  from  the  Casa  de  Pilatos, 
popularly  believed  to  have  been  constructed  on 
the  model  of  the  Proconsular  Palace  at  Jerusalem 
in  which  Pilate  lived,  by  a  travelled  ancestor  of 
the  San  Sidonia  family,  a  small  bust  of  Don  Pedro 
is  let  into  a  house  wall. 

From  this  we  know  him  as  he  was:  regular 
aquiline  features,  with  soft  youthful  lines,  long 
waves  of  rippling  curls  fall  on  his  shoulders,  and  a 
low  pointed  crown  presses  upon  his  smooth  brow. 
One  hand  rests  on  the  hilt  of  a  sword,  the  other 
grasps  a  Gothic  sceptre.  The  place  where  the 
bust  is  placed  is  called  the  Catte  del  Candilejo, 
in  the  middle  of  narrow  alleys  unaltered  since  the 
Moors. 

Now  the  story  goes  that  in  one  of  his  midnight 
rambles,  for  he  wandered  about  like  the  Caliph 
Haroun  el  Raschid,  Don  Pedro  found  himself  in 
the  Calle  del  Candilejo  (of  the  candle),  where  he 
ran  up  against  a  hidalgo,  who  turned  and  struck 
him.  Some  say  that  he  was  a  noted  duellist, 
with  whom  Don  Pedro  had  long  desired  to  measure 


346  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

swords;  others  that  he  did  not  run  up  against  the 
king  at  all,  but  that  Don  Pedro  purposely  attacked 
him.  Anyhow  swords  were  drawn  freely.  Neither 
would  let  the  other  go  with  his  life,  and  both  would 
sell  their  own  dearly.  At  last,  by  a  cunning  lunge, 
Don  Pedro  ripped  up  his  adversary  and  laid  him  at 
his  feet. 

Now,  shortly  before,  the  king  had  made  a  decree 
forbidding  all  fighting  in  the  streets  upon  pain  of 
death.  What  with  love,  revenge,  jealousy,  and 
robbery,  so  many  citizens  were  killed  that  there 
were  not  enough  left  to  fight. 

What  was  to  be  done?  There  lay  his  adversary 
dead,  and  as  Don  Pedro  gazed  down  upon  his  face 
he  remembered  that,  according  to  his  own  decree, 
he  had  condemned  himself  to  death.  While  he  was 
wiping  the  blood  from  his  sword,  an  idea  struck 
him  and  he  began  to  laugh.  No  one  had  seen  the 
fight,  no  one  could  identify  him.  What  an  ex- 
cellent occasion  this  would  be  of  showing  the 
carelessness  of  the  Alcaide.  If  the  Alcaide  had 
done  his  duty  and  put  guards  about,  such  a  thing 
could  not  have  happened.  Further,  if  the  Alcaide 
could  not  discover  him  as  the  living  man,  he,  Don 
Pedro,  would  have  the  pleasure  of  wringing  off  his 
neck.  Altogether  he  returned  to  the  Alcazar  in 
high  good  humour. 

The  first  thing  he  did  next  morning  was  to 
summon  the  Alcaide.  "Sir  Alcaide,"  said  he, 
leading  him  by  the  hand  to  a  seat  on  his  own  divan, 
"I  have  called  you  to  inquire  whether  any  mis- 


DON  PEDRO  347 


creant  has  dared  to  transgress  my  law  against 
street-fighting.  In  these  unsettled  times  it  is 
needful  that  the  king  should  be  obeyed. " 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  Alcaide,  not  altogether 
reassured  by  the  king's  manner,  too  gracious  to 
be  sincere,  "I  am  not  aware  that  any  one  has 
offended." 

"Ha!  say  you  so?  Are  you  sure?  For  re- 
member, if  any  fighting  takes  place  within  the 
city  and  the  survivor  escapes,  I  shall  hold  you 
responsible  for  the  blood  that  is  shed. " 

At  this  the  Alcaide  grew  very  grave.  He  was 
quite  aware  that  Don  Pedro  would  be  as  good  as 
his  word,  and  trembled  lest  some  hidden  motive 
was  prompting  him.  Nor  was  he  left  long  in 
doubt.  Before  he  could  reply  a  Moorish  page 
entered,  bearing  a  paper  on  a  silver  salver,  which 
no  sooner  had  the  king  glanced  at,  than,  starting 
to  his  feet,  he  swore  a  big  oath. 

"What,"  he  cries,  "while  you,  Alcaide,  are 
come  here  to  lie  and  cringe,  a  more  faithful  servant 
warns  me  that  a  dead  body  was  found  last  night 
in  the  plaza  behind  Pilatos'  house!" 

"Sire, "  replies  the  Alcaide,  "if  it  be  so,  you  have 
good  reason  to  reproach  me. " 

"If I"  shouts  the  king,  in  a  well- simulated  rage. 
"Do  you  dare  to  doubt  me?  Now,  to  teach  you 
your  duty,  I  warn  you  that  if  the  criminal  is  not 
found  in  two  days,  you  yourself  shall  hang  in  his 
place. " 

The  feelings  of  the  Alcaide,  a  comfortable  man 


348  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

with  a  wife  and  family,  may  be  imagined.  No 
sooner  did  he  reach  the  Ayuntamiento  than  he 
found  that  a  fight  had  really  taken  place,  and  a 
dead  body  been  discovered.  But  alas!  no  one 
could  give  him  the  slightest  clue.  No  one  had 
seen  the  fight ;  no  one  knew  the  survivor. 

At  last,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when 
in  sheer  despair  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  wife  and 
children  and  sent  for  his  confessor,  an  old  woman 
looking  like  a  witch,  was  shown  into  his  presence, 
and  astonished  him  by  declaring  that  she  could 
name  the  man.  But  what  with  his  impatience  and 
the  breathless  state  of  the  old  woman  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  her  to  explain. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "I  had  just  fastened  my 
door  and  was  going  upstairs,  for  it  was  late,  when 
I  heard  a  great  clatter  of  swords  at  the  opening  of 
the  Calle.  As  the  night  was  dark  and  I  could  not 
see,  I  lit  a  candle  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
There  I  saw  two  men  fighting.  As  one,  or  both, 
will  be  sure  to  want  to  be  laid  out  to-morrow  (for 
my  trade  is  with  the  dead),  I  will  make  sure,  I 
said  to  myself.  One  had  his  back  to  me,  the 
other  was  the  king." 

"The  king?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  and  no  other.  He  was  in  com- 
mon clothes  and  wore  a  mask;  but  when  he  had 
run  his  enemy  through  he  took  it  off,  and  stood 
wiping  his  sword.  I  could  see  him  as  plainly  as 
I  see  you.  In  a  terrible  fright,  I  blew  out  my 
candle,  lest  he  should  look  up  and  kill  me  also; 


DON  PEDRO  349 


but  he  was  too  busy.  If  I  had  not  seen  his  face, " 
continued  the  old  woman,  chuckling  to  herself, 
1 '  I  should  have  known  him  by  the  knocking  of  his 
knees.  Everybody  in  Seville  knows  the  noise 
the  king  makes  when  he  walks. " 

The  old  woman  dismissed  with  proper  thanks 
and  a  liberal  reward,  the  Alcaide  presented  himself 
betimes  at  the  Alcazar  next  morning,  arriving 
just  as  Don  Pedro  was  taking  his  seat  upon  the 
marble  bench  outside  his  dazzling  portal,  to  judge 
all  who  came. 

When  Don  Pedro  beckoned  to  him  to  approach, 
the  Alcaide  smiled.  "Well,  sir  officer,"  says  he, 
eyeing  him  all  over  with  an  evil  smile,  ' '  have  you 
found  the  man?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  and  nothing  is  easier  than  for 
your  Grace  to  meet  him  face  to  face."  At  which 
notion  the  Alcaide  became  so  overwhelmed  with 
mirth  he  had  to  turn  away  his  face  not  to  laugh 
outright. 

"Is  the  man  mad?"  thought  Don  Pedro,  "or 
is  he  mocking  me?"  Then  a  fit  of  passion  seized 
him.  "Villain,"  he  shouts,  "you  have  found  no 
one.  You  are  shirking  to  save  your  life.  Unless 
the  real  man  is  brought  here " 

"But,  my  lord,"  breaks  in  the  Alcaide,  "if 
you  know  who  the  real  man  is,  why  do  you  com- 
mand me  to  seek  him?"  To  which  shrewd  ques- 
tion Don  Pedro  could  find  no  reply;  only  if  he 
hated  the  Alcaide  before,  he  then  and  there  resolved 
on  the  very  next  opportunity  to  cut  off  his  head. 


350  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN 

"Now,"  and  the  Alcaide  looks  the  young  king 
full  in  the  face,  "will  my  lord  permit  me  to  take 
leave  in  order  to  make  preparation  for  the  execu- 
tion? I  think  you  insisted  on  the  third  day  from 
the  murder,  that  is  to-morrow?  As  you  yourself 
will  be  present,  all  must  be  arranged  with  fitting 
care. " 

Then  he  called  to  him  skilful  Moorish  artificers, 
for  all  the  delicate  work  at  that  time  was  done  by 
Moors,  and  caused  them  to  construct  during  the 
night  a  life-sized  figure  or  dummy,  dressed  in 
royal  robes,  to  represent  the  king,  a  sword  in  one 
hand  and  a  sceptre  in  the  other.  The  next  morn- 
ing this  figure  was  hung  on  a  gibbet  in  the  Plaza 
de  San  Francisco,  Don  Pedro  himself  being  present, 
attended  by  all  his  court. 

How  he  looked  or  in  what  manner  he  explained 
so  strange  a  proceeding,  tradition  does  not  say; 
but  when  the  crowned  dummy  was  swinging  in  the 
air,  the  king  called  the  Alcaide  to  him  and  said, 
"Justice  has  been  done — I  am  satisfied. " 

Ever  since  that  time  the  spot  where  the  King 
fought  is  called  the  "  Calle  delta  Cabeza  del  Key 
Don  Pedro, "  and  the  narrow  alley  close  by,  where 
the  old  woman  looked  out  of  the  window,  the 
'''Calle  del  Candilejo"  ;  while,  that  there  might  be 
no  mistake  as  to  what  took  place  there,  a  bust  of 
Don  Pedro  is  let  into  the  wall. 

END  OF   VOLUME  I 


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